


Advanced Floriography

by Viridiantly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forgiveness, Friendship, Grief, Hermione is into Ron at first but of course that ends, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, No underage, Redemption, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Burn, The Aftermath of War, mostly set during HBP and DH and after
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26537827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viridiantly/pseuds/Viridiantly
Summary: Snape's first question to Harry about wormwood and asphodel in the Language of Flowers means "I bitterly regret Lily's death". Harry never gets the message behind the question, but what if Hermione Granger does, years later?A story about unintentional confessions, the war, and different kinds of love. Not canon-compliant, but canon-inspired.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 192
Kudos: 249





	1. Purple Hyacinth

Hermione didn’t know how they always got into these situations.

 _“Oh **very** funny,”_ she said. Slytherin students crowded the hallway, all wearing Malfoy’s _POTTER STINKS_ badges.

 _“Really **witty,**_ **”** she said, her tone implying that it was anything but.

_“Want one, Granger?” said Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.”_

Hermione ignored her own tired anger—it would not be the first or last time that Malfoy used that word—and tried to warn Harry when he started to respond, but Harry was beyond listening. She watched helplessly as Harry raised his wand.

_“Furnunculus!” Harry yelled._

_“Densaugeo!” screamed Malfoy,_ wand aimed at Harry.

Two streaks of light hit each other mid-air and ricocheted off each other—one hit Goyle in the face, and the other hit Hermione square in the jaw.

Goyle’s face immediately erupted into boils, while Hermione felt nothing happen. Maybe she was fine—maybe Malfoy’s spell was defective—but then she felt a tingling ache in her upper teeth. Slowly, her upper teeth grew past her lower lip and crept down her chin.

She let out a terrified cry when her teeth would not stop growing, and the Slytherins in the hall gathered closer to see what was wrong. Some of the surrounding students were giggling. Malfoy said something about ‘Mudbloods’ and the Slytherin girls laughed harder.

_“And what is all this noise about?”_

Professor Snape strode down the hallway, robes billowing behind him as students scattered to get out of his way. Hermione was relieved; Snape favoured his Slytherins in classes but he had never let students come to harm before, even if they were friends of Harry Potter.

Malfoy immediately told Snape about Goyle while Snape looked intensely into his eyes. Snape sent Goyle to the Hospital Wing, and then Ron was dragging her in front of Snape to show him her teeth.

_Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, “I see no difference.”_

There was a ringing in her ears and she could not stop herself from letting out a whimper. Her vision blurred with tears as she fled from the corridor. She didn’t stop running until she reached the doors of the Hospital Wing. When she got there she couldn't stop crying long enough to say what was wrong to the concerned hospital Matron, but the problem was obvious as her teeth reached halfway down her chest at this point.

Madam Pomfrey performed the counterspell immediately, and Hermione said nothing as the Matron shrank them slightly smaller than they used to be. She had always wanted her teeth fixed, and now she had an excuse.

During the entirety of the next Potions period she avoided looking at Professor Snape and did not raise her hand for any questions. Once or twice she caught Malfoy making beaver teeth with his fingers at her. Every time Malfoy did so she felt a fresh wave of humiliation from the memory of the students laughing at her in the hallway. Professor Snape didn’t seem to notice her out-of-character behaviour, but he became more agitated than usual as the class dragged on, especially after the third question he asked went unanswered.

At the end of the period, he assigned each student a minor healing potion to research instead of the antidotes that they were scheduled to be studying. Hermione looked down at her assigned Blemish Remover Balm with a scowl. Was he making a comment on her skin now? She knew she had minor spots from time to time, but perhaps to Snape there was no difference between what she had and the giant pockmarks the Blemish Remover Balm was supposed to cure.

The assigned potion turned out to be simple, though with several variants, and Hermione dutifully copied them all down and noted how different ingredient substitutions affected the final potion. She even came up with a possible variation for improving sallow skin in a pique of vindictiveness; if Snape thought he was the only one who could get away with making snide comments about another person’s appearance then he was sorely mistaken.

When she received her essay back, she found that Snape had made a single comment on her theoretical potion instead of his usual running commentary about her long-windedness or textbook regurgitation.

_Add purple hyacinths. See Floriography and Potions Making for explanation. The resulting balm should be useful as a general skin perfecting formula._

She turned her parchment over, looking for more of his aggressively spiky handwriting, but found none.

 _Floriography and Potions Making_ was hidden deep in the Potions section of the library, with a layer of dust so thick it was obvious that no one had read the book in ages. Settling her bag on the ground, Hermione sat down at one of her favourite tables and spread the book out on the worn honey-coloured wood.

_The Muggle use of communicating meaning through plants, written down in the book The Language of Flowers, was a corruption of the ancient arithmantic text Keys to Plants. Now lost to time, it was then known as the most complete text on the effects of different plants in potion making. It is possible to reconstruct the original knowledge of these plants in the lost text by careful study of the meanings that these plants hold in The Language of Flowers._

Fascinated, Hermione read through a few more pages before she skipped to _Hyacinth, Purple_. She sucked in a breath as she read the entry for the plant.

_Hyacinth, Purple._

_Symbolism: Sorrow, I am sorry, please forgive me._

_An exfoliant used in topical healing potions, purple hyacinths can aid the absorption of certain ingredients if used crushed. They are especially effective in dealing with skin conditions caused by emotional distress._

Hermione stared in disbelief. It seemed as if Professor Snape was apologizing, if she was reading the book right—reading _him_ right—and he _had_ to be, because she knew she could have found the knowledge of purple hyacinths’ potions properties in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi,_ but not the symbolism...this convinced her this was Snape’s way of apologizing to her, though he was doing it in an entirely convoluted manner.

The next class, Hermione waited until everyone had left before she made her way to hand in her essay. Professor Snape tensed as she approached; neither had said a single word to each other again during class. On top of her essay, she placed a single hazelnut, which the floriography text had said stood for _reconciliation._ Snape’s eyes flickered to the nut, but he did not touch it.

“Thank you for your recommendation of the book, sir,” Hermione said.

Snape’s lips thinned. “Don’t thank me. Your previous understanding of potions ingredients was woefully incomplete and simplistic.”

She was taken aback. “Of course, sir.”

“You of all people should understand that sometimes things react differently in combination with other elements that do not belie their true nature,” Snape said, shoulders tensing even further. “If there is nothing else you wish to discuss I suggest you run along to your next class.”

Hermione left the classroom before she could think of an adequate response, stuttering an apology as she left. The way he said one thing and seemed to mean another gave her whiplash as she tried to understand him, and his cryptic remarks only served to confuse her further.

But the reasons for his actions became clear at the end of the school year when she learned that Lord Voldemort was back, and that Snape had known that he had been growing in power for a year, because Severus Snape was a Death Eater, and a spy.

* * *

_Fifth Year, after Severus Snape threw Harry Potter out of his office_

He couldn’t do this anymore. The spying was bad enough, but the teaching was worse. Pretending that he was sabotaging Potter—in case Voldemort went rooting around the boy’s mind—while actually trying to goad the boy into having some sense and teach him something about Occlumency at the same time was impossible. The fact that Albus had been driven from the castle because Potter had the bad sense to start a secret defence club named _Dumbledore’s Army_ made it all moot.

The visions of hallways in the boy’s mind made it obvious that he had learned nothing, and wanted to learn nothing from him. It was obvious Potter had no regard for the danger he was in, and wanted to know what the visions that Voldemort was sending him were about. It was so typical of the boy to be so self-absorbed. He wallowed in self-pity and arrogance when the fate of the wizarding world rested on his shoulders, and refused to accept authority and help from those who knew better.

The fact that the boy had so little respect for his privacy and stuck his nose where it did not belong didn’t surprise Severus at all. He hoped the little miscreant disliked what he saw in the Pensieve. It served him right to find out the truth about his father—that he was a bully who cared little for others and was full of himself.

Severus sat at his desk and went through mental exercises to calm himself. When the worst of his rage and humiliation passed, he slumped against his desk, head in his hands.

He knew he was hard on Potter, and hit him where it hurt, but the Dark Lord was as likely to be considerate of Potter’s precious feelings as he was to Avada himself. Somebody had to prepare the boy for what was coming, but Severus couldn’t help but feel like it was a hopeless task. The boy was reckless and lacked sense, and _did not want to learn,_ and the worst part was that Albus didn’t see anything wrong with it.

He was contemplating a momentary break before he went to tighten castle security when a knock sounded at his door. _Now what?_

“Professor?”

It was the Granger girl. Of course it was Hermione Granger. Whenever Potter got into a tough spot (which was evidently every potions assignment), Granger would be there to hold his hand through the mess and clean up after him.

Of Potter’s friends though, she at least had a little sense. The jinx that caused Edgecombe to erupt into pustules was obviously her work. The vindictiveness was almost Slytherin, though any true Slytherin would’ve threatened their victim into silence before they had a chance for betrayal. The exclusion of his House from their defence group rankled him; the group needed an edge in cunning, but he could not think of a single member of his own house he felt comfortable pushing toward the group at the moment.

His lips curled. No doubt she would be here to make her excuses for the boy and add to his guilty conscience.

“Enter.”

The girl sat down slowly and took a deep breath. “Good evening, sir. I heard from Harry that you cancelled his Occlumency lessons... he said you thought he had a good enough grasp on the subject, but I don’t think he’s telling the truth.” He lightly scanned her thoughts and was surprised that she was being honest. He was even more surprised when she looked up at him, startled, as if she had detected his intrusion.

“If Potter says so, why not believe him?” Severus asked, shifting to get ready to dismiss the girl.

“I know something must have happened between you two, and I know that Harry can be difficult to handle, but it’s really important that he closes down the mental connection between him and You-Know-Who!”

Severus prayed for patience.

“Miss Granger. I have attempted to teach Potter to close his mind for three months now. He has made little improvement in the two dozen lessons that I’ve had with him. What makes you think more will have any effect? Has it not occurred to you that Potter is just not capable of learning?”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times. So, the boy was lying to his friends, was he?

“Then…do we just live with the fact that Voldemort might possess Harry at any moment?” she asked in a small voice.

Severus sighed. He had thought of this issue himself and knew that sooner or later the Dark Lord would do something about the boy, but he couldn’t just say that outright. Nobody whose mind was vulnerable to the Dark Lord or his minions could know of his true loyalties—the deception had to be absolute.

“Perhaps you should be prepared for such an eventuality. If Potter refuses to close his mind and all but invites the Dark Lord in, none of us can stop him.” The girl looked shocked. Severus felt that statement was callous enough for his double spy act and offered a warning at the same time, while placing the blame squarely back on Potter where it belonged. Maybe if he said it enough he would believe it.

“Now go. With Dumbledore’s unfortunate… _absence_ from this castle, the safety of no one within these walls is guaranteed, and I have many important things to do that do not involve bending over backwards to forgive Harry Potter for his flaws.”

He was in charge of the safety of the children now, but maybe if Granger knew how precarious the situation was, she could convince Potter to listen to reason. Twisting the guilt into the girl for her fault in the mess that led to Dumbledore’s flight might drive her to act with greater caution in the future; he had seen the sign-up sheet when Umbridge demanded that he undo the jinx on Miss Edgecombe’s face, and recognised Granger’s writing when he saw it. She should’ve known better than to leave evidence and assume that they would never get caught.

“Yes, sir.” Thoroughly chastised, she left his office.

* * *

_After the Battle at the Department of Mysteries_

Severus felt as if he hadn’t slept for days. It had been three days since the battle. Dumbledore had just finished debriefing him on the fiasco at the Ministry—after the Headmaster had spent the past few days away from the school doing damage control with the Ministry—and he was trying to calm down the murderous rage inside him. Staring into his fire drinking tea had seemed like a wise alternative to throwing things or yelling at injured children.

He had known it was too good to be true that Potter would keep his head down for the entirety of the school year, but cocking up this spectacularly and bringing all his friends down with him had been beyond even Severus’ wildest imagination. He should have known.

The fact that the public knew Voldemort was back meant that things would only get worse. The Dark Lord would not be able to resist inciting widespread fear and panic now.

Dumbledore had decided that he had been in error in thinking that he could fight the influence of Voldemort at the Ministry—Severus did not know how Albus could have done more, with how firmly Lucius had twisted Fudge against him, but to see the Headmaster give up made him feel ill.

But the Order did not have the resources for that fight, did not have the people or influence necessary at the moment. Dumbledore had decided to switch tactics to focus on neutralising the Dark Lord and key Death Eaters so the movement would not revive even if the Dark Lord fell. Rank and file soldiers and Imperiused supporters were not their worry anymore; that was for the After, if they ever made it that far.

It was worrying. Taking down the Dark Lord meant relying more on Potter—a boy who had proven to be unstable, easily manipulated, and out of control—because of the blasted prophecy. At least he had more level-headed friends who were capable of thinking straight in a dangerous situation. The Granger girl had apparently not only realised that the vision was likely a trap but had neatly disposed of and terrorised Umbridge, all without getting her hands dirty.

Of course, in the end she went along with Potter and nearly got herself killed, and now Severus was stuck brewing the ten different potions she would need to stay alive and heal. Normally, he would have resented the person who got themselves into such a situation to need so many potions in the first place…but the girl _had_ terrorised Umbridge.

Dumbledore was overwhelmingly focused on the boy—he had faith in _the Chosen One_. Severus did not. He knew that Potter was key to bringing down the Dark Lord, because Voldemort himself chose to set the prophecy in motion. Severus also knew that the Granger girl would be there with Potter every step of the way, whispering instructions into Potter’s ears, figuring out how to carry out his insane plans, and seeing him through to the end, or at least until reinforcements arrived.

Severus stared at the bubbling cauldrons around him.

He could train her. Potter did seem to listen to her at times, and she had a ruthless streak that would be necessary for war. She also knew how to keep a secret, even from Potter—Lupin’s lycanthropy came to mind.

The girl would do.

* * *

_The next day in the Hospital Wing_

Hermione woke up alone in the hospital wing. The scar on her chest hurt, and there was a pile of get-well gifts and cards on her bedside table.

She sat up gingerly and sorted through her cards.

There was a card from the entirety of Gryffindor house, a card that exploded with confetti from Fred and George, a tub of fudge from Mrs Weasley, as well as smaller greetings from assorted friends.

Someone had also left her a brand-new book, glossily leather-bound and embossed in gilt letters with the title _Basic Healing Charms and Potions_. On top of the book lay two sprigs of bell-like flowers, one white and one purple. The purple one she knew to be belladonna from potions class. It was nice that someone had thought to send her interesting reading and flowers, but why would someone send her deadly nightshade?

Her mouth dropped open and her heart skipped a beat when she opened the brand new cover to reveal ancient yellowed pages with an ornate, old-fashioned script. _The Arts of Perception_ read the first page. The index outlined the theory and practice of Occlumency, Legilimency, Obliviation, Memory Manipulation and Memory Creation. She couldn’t believe it. She had been searching for a book that went into the specifics of how Occlumency worked to help Harry, but could not find anything in the library. And now she had the perfect book in her hands.

Suddenly she had a feeling that the person who sent her the belladonna knew exactly why they were sending her deadly nightshade. She thought of the floriography book she had read the year before last.

Her hands shook as she skimmed through the introduction. How much trouble could they have avoided if they could have just modified Umbridge’s memory when they needed to? How much trouble could they have avoided if Harry had learned Occlumency like he was supposed to?

But she had to know what the flowers meant.

She hadn’t been discharged, but no one was on watch in the hospital wing. With great effort, she lifted herself out of the cot and slipped out the door before Madam Pomfrey could appear and stop her. She made her way to the library without getting caught and found the book on floriography again.

She was sweating with exertion when she found the flowers that she had received. The white flower was Solomon’s seal, for _secrecy and discretion_. Deadly nightshade meant _silence_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is about 2/3 complete, currently with 26/34 chapters mostly written. Currently updating once every 3-4 weeks until this fic is entirely drafted. Progress updates can be found at my tumblr: [viridiantly](https://viridiantly.tumblr.com/). Direct quotes from canon are in italics. This story roughly runs parallel to the books until the end of HBP, at which point the story diverges, though I do draw inspiration from some of the events of DH. 
> 
> Thank you to frostynarrator, and PensievePrince for helping beta the first several chapters. A big thank you to [chronicxlogolepsy](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/chronicxlogolepsy/pseuds/chronicxlogolepsy) for your invaluable alpha and beta work, and for being here for the development of most of this story—I would have quit this fic at chapter 7 without you. Also a big thank you to [turtlewexler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtle_wexler/pseuds/turtle_wexler) for your alpha reading and Brit-picking, and being there for me to flail about this fic. <3
> 
> Further thanks to The Writing Den, The Pink Ladies, and Hearts & Cauldrons discord communities for all the writing sprints and support. Writing is hard, but you guys made it easier. <3


	2. Mistletoe

Hermione had returned home three days after being discharged from the Hospital Wing and already she was missing the food they served at Hogwarts. Her mother had been pushing barely cooked broccoli around her plate for the past five minutes, her short light brown curly hair wild with agitation, the thin lines of her forehead evident from her furrowed brows. She finally spoke. 

“Hermione, dear, listen to us. We’re worried about you. You’ve returned home gravely injured from an accident in Potions class, there’s a Dark Wizard who kills people like you according to the _Daily Prophet_ , and you’re friends with the biggest target of this Dark Wizard, who somehow got involved in a battle with him! Leave the wizarding world. We’ve been putting money in your university fund all these years—I’m sure you can catch up to others in no time—”

“Mum, we’ve been through this. It was an unusually violent accident in Potions class—” Hermione put her knife and fork down, her appetite suddenly lost.

Jean Granger bristled. “Unusual or not, it’s still unconscionable that it happened at all—” 

“—and I’ve told you the _Daily Prophet_ prints rubbish—”

“We weren’t born yesterday!” her mother snapped. “Your father and I can tell when a government is trying to do damage control; the articles read less like propaganda now and more like news reporting, and right now things sound _dangerous—_ ”

“It’ll only be more dangerous if I leave!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Why?” Richard Granger asked in a deceptively soft voice, settling his cutlery down with a clink. His solemn face looked more serious than usual, and his soft brown eyes looked tired. He had more grey in his dark brown hair than the last time she saw him.

They all stopped eating. Hermione groaned. She had not meant to say what she did, but it had slipped out of her mouth before she could think better of it. She took a deep breath before she explained. “Because I’m Muggle-born. Because the Dark wizards will hunt me down regardless of where I am, and if I’m around Muggles when it happens—”

“ _When_ it happens?” her mother asked sharply.

“I mean, if—” Hermione faltered at the look on her father’s face. “Fine! _When_ it happens, I want to have gone through school so I know how to defend myself, and I don’t want to be around non-magical folk because they’ll be in danger around me!”

“Oh, sweetie…” her mother’s face crumpled.

Hermione took a deep breath. She hadn’t meant to be this honest with her parents, but now that she was, she was going to tell them what she really thought. “You shouldn’t be worried about me—you should be worried about yourselves. They’ll target you because you’re parents to a Muggle-born! You should pack up and leave the country—”

“And leave my only daughter to face danger alone?” her father asked, voice dangerously calm.

“Yes! Because you’ll be safer that way—”

“Over my dead body!” her father hissed.

“Richard—”

“No Jean, this is ridiculous. The wizarding world is obviously dangerous and going to the dogs, and Hermione is going to leave. We’ll go—we’ll all go to Canada or Australia—I am not sitting by idly while my daughter is in danger,” he said with finality.

“I won’t leave,” Hermione said.

Her father snorted. “Why not? The wizarding world is obviously hostile to people like you—”

“That’s why I have to stay and fight—”

“You _don’t_ have to stay and fight. This can be somebody else’s fight. How much can you do? You’re just one girl. Let the others fight. There must be more qualified people, and all the worse so if they’re so badly down on their luck that they have children fighting in their wars for them. We’re going to leave the country and that’s final.” Her father leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

Her father’s words stung. _I’m not just one girl,_ she wanted to say. Even if she was, she knew the numbers of the Order were limited, and she knew Harry needed her—and it was _her_ fight, too.

“You can’t make me leave,” Hermione said, feeling strangely adult as she said the childish words. It was a hollow feeling. 

Her father looked at her with a mixture of hurt and pride. “No, I suppose we can’t.”

“But we’re not leaving either,” her mother said.

Hermione resisted the urge to shout. “Mum—”

“No, listen. How could we go away when our only child is in certain danger? How can we go to a foreign country and live as if nothing is happening? If you refuse to leave, we also refuse to leave.” Jean Granger’s mouth twisted as she said the words. 

Hermione gaped at her mother. The conversation had gone from disastrous to tragic, and she had not thought her mother would resort to emotional blackmail to get her to leave.

“Mum…” she said weakly.

“Don’t you understand what it would do to us if you died?” her mother asked softly, eyes turning red.

“Jean—” her father began gruffly.

“Nobody’s going to die,” Hermione said.

“Lots of people have already died. It looks like they’re having a really hard time with this Dark Wizard with no name, so how can you say that?” her mother asked.

“Hermione is right. No one is going to die,” her father said calmly. “Let’s all take some time to cool down and think rationally. I’m sure we’ll feel much more reasonable tomorrow after a good night’s rest,” he said, looking hard at Hermione.

“Dad’s right,” Hermione agreed in a tight voice. A tense silence fell upon the table.

“I’m...going to my room to do some reading,” Hermione said, appetite completely gone. She took her leftovers to the kitchen, then retreated to the confines of her room.

She sat at the white wooden desk of her childhood bedroom, now too small for her, and returned to reading the book on mind magic. She had spent most of her days reading while her parents were at their practice and had taken thorough notes on the Occlumency section. She had been practising basic exercises to prepare for practicing Occlumency for the past three days, and felt that she was ready for Occlumency with magic. The basic methods of clearing and focusing her thoughts, and focusing on a visualisation to keep her mind blank required no magic, so she felt comfortable practising at home while she still had the Trace.

She was just reading the section on planting false memories when she got an idea…

* * *

Hermione woke up with her heart pounding from an unpleasant dream where she was being chased by ten-foot-tall Death Eaters to the sound of tapping at the window. The nightmares plagued her most nights after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, and in all her dreams she had been chased by Death Eaters who she could never outrun.

It was dark in her room; the edge of the sky peeking through her curtains was a deep inky blue. She rose from her warm blankets, stumbling slightly, to let in the owl that was impatiently waiting for her. It looked like a Hogwarts owl and carried a lumpy envelope. She frowned in confusion; school had been out for little more than three weeks now and she was not expecting any post. Scrawled on the envelope was her name in a strange, scratchy hand.

In the envelope she found a ticket to enter Stonehenge the following Friday at two in the afternoon, with a single flower she recognised as Solomon’s seal, and a small sprig of mistletoe. She was surprised Snape had decided to contact her so soon. 

Hermione’s eyebrows knitted together. Solomon’s seal for secrecy and discretion she understood, but what did mistletoe have to do with anything? Surely it was not the obvious meaning.

She dug the copy she had illicitly made of _Floriography and Potions Making_ from her trunk and looked up the entry on mistletoe.

_While mistletoe has become a symbol associated with fertility and love in modern times, traditionally, it symbolised peace and was often hung by druids at sacred meeting places where no violence was to take place._

Ah. Druids. Stonehenge. A safe meeting space. Hermione felt silly she had thought of kissing in connection with the mistletoe and set about pondering how she would make her way to Stonehenge. 

She had been having passive-aggressively terse yet outwardly calm arguments with her parents near daily about her decision to remain in the wizarding world, and her father had been acting more overprotective than usual, demanding to know where she was going at all times. It had reached the point where she stopped trying to go outside and focused harder on her Occlumency studies.

“You always told me to fight for what is right!” Hermione had said to her father in frustration one day, as he questioned her yet again when she wanted to go to the library.

“I meant going to protests! Organising fundraisers! Writing to parliament! Ensuring that our social rights are protected in a civilised manner—the way civilisation _should be,_ not getting killed in an act of civil conflict!” her father had replied, bristling with anger.

“But what if I had to fight, because the other side wouldn’t listen to civilised debate? They’re violent and hurting us. They’re targeting non-magical folk too. I can’t just run away—”

“You most certainly can! Wars are fought by _soldiers_ , and you are a _civilian_. We’ll go somewhere safe. Your mother and I didn’t raise you to engage in violence. It is one thing for a community to engage in warfare with trained adults, even though they shouldn’t, but you are an unprepared _child_ — _”_

“I’ll be of age in the wizarding world this September—”

“But you’ll still be a child in _our_ world—”

“It’s not my world anymore,” Hermione quietly said, and her father had deflated. 

“We don’t want to lose you,” he said, defeated.

“You won’t,” Hermione lied, thinking of how close she had come to dying at the Department of Mysteries. 

“Please leave Britain,” Hermione had pleaded. But her parents would not change their minds. They would not leave without her, and she would not leave either.

In the end, she had made up an excuse about meeting Harry at Stonehenge for a school assignment and had assured her parents that no one had ever been attacked in crowded places in broad daylight, or on public transportation, so her father begrudgingly let her go. 

The trip to Stonehenge from Oxfordshire was two and a half hours. Hermione spent most of her train trip listening to the radio on her AM/FM cassette player while she watched the landscape speed past; she never got used to wizarding music and treasured her time catching up with Muggle pop hits. There was a lot of Oasis on the airwaves. By the end of the trip, she was thoroughly sick of hearing the nasally opening lines of “Wonderwall”.

She heaved a sigh of relief as she left the final leg of her trip—the bus—and looked around the Visitor’s Centre. Would Snape arrive as himself, or disguised? The ticket was for two in the afternoon, and she had arrived with twenty minutes to spare, but she was anxious to see the professor. 

She craned her neck around, and caught a glimpse of the tall form of her professor dressed in a black button-up shirt and black trousers before she felt a stabbing pain in her head.

“Hello to you too, Professor,” Hermione grumbled under her breath.

She took a deep breath and focused on clearing her mind. She felt a mental nudge to think of her deepest fears and secrets, but she focused on an image of the smooth blue sky, seamless and endless, concealing her thoughts and giving nothing away. She could feel Snape attempt to disturb the peace of her mind to latch onto memories, but he found nothing more than endless blue. The deeper he went the darker the sky became, and she could feel herself calling on her magic to keep him from breaking her focus on the image of the sky.

Sweat beaded on her forehead. The drain on her magic to maintain calm and unthinking was immense, and Snape got no further in his attempts to find her secrets, but her vision was gathering black spots at the edges.

As soon as the darkness set in, the attack stopped. Professor Snape had been walking closer to her without breaking eye contact the entire time, and now he was close enough she could see faint dark circles under his eyes. He had tied his hair back and looked disconcertingly Muggle without his billowing robes and lank hair surrounding his face. He looked more human and less like a force of nature.

“What flowers did I _not_ give you in your fourth year?” he asked without preamble.

It took Hermione a moment to understand what he was saying. “Purple hyacinths,” she said, trembling slightly. The attack had been nothing like she had been prepared for by her book.

“Let’s drink some tea before we go in to see the stones,” Professor Snape offered. Hermione nodded blankly, feeling faint.

They got tea at the café, where Snape ordered for the two of them and paid. Hermione watched in interest as he handled the transaction as if he bought things at Muggle shops all the time—he had none of the difficulty that she had seen Mr Weasley exhibit. Perhaps it was due to his spy skills, Hermione thought. 

Snape also took the liberty of dumping six packets of sugar into Hermione’s cup before she could protest and ordered her to drink. Her headache eased after she gulped down half the cup though she shuddered to think of what her parents would think.

“Oh no, the Trace!” she exclaimed. “I did magic with the Occlumency,” she added miserably. “The Ministry—”

Snape raised a hand for her to stop. “Stonehenge cloaks certain magical activities, most notably tracking spells. It is a magical site.”

“Really?” Hermione asked excitedly. “I remember in History of Magic it was said that Merlin himself built the henge with the help of giants...but the stones date from before Merlin, and most people know it’s just a myth that Merlin created Stonehenge.”

Snape pursed his lips. “There may be some truth to the stories. Merlin likely enchanted the stones long after they were built, though no one knows for what purpose. Stonehenge is also conveniently overrun by Muggles to the point where most wizards would avoid this area, and traditionalists hold this site sacred; Death Eaters will not attack here.”

Snape drank the rest of his unsweetened tea and motioned for her to get up. “I brought you here so we may speak freely, without fear of being traced by anyone who may be observing your home or your communications. Your Occlumency skills are adequate enough for us to proceed, and your choice of focusing visualisation is unusually inspired.” The implied _for you_ hung at the end of his sentence. “Have you told anyone of your studies?”

“No! Of course not—you told me to keep things secret, so I did.”

“Did I actually _tell_ you anything?” he asked, tone deceptively mild.

“Well, not so much in words…but I thought it would be better to be safe than sorry.”

“An attitude you could have demonstrated more last year,” Snape said sharply. Hermione felt guilt twist deep in her gut before he relented. “But you have learned. It seems.”

They had reached the ticket counter. They handed their tickets over, then walked through the door near the gift centre.

Snape led her down a path until they were in a dark tunnel lined with green faux-marble; he looked at the real sky for a moment and rolled his shirtsleeves up, before wandlessly casting a cooling charm both on himself and Hermione. She sighed in relief; it was thirty degrees and she had chosen to wear long jeans.

Hermione tried not to stare in fascination at his Dark Mark—passing Muggles certainly seemed to take no notice of it. Dressed in his black shirt and black trousers with his skull and snake tattoo, Snape looked like a rebellious barman, or librarian, though Hermione doubted she could ever ignore his aura of danger and power, no matter his appearance. 

Seeing no one nearby, he gestured briefly with his wand hand; Hermione felt a strange pressure briefly around her ears, as well as a mild buzzing sound.

“That was a muffling spell. We may now speak freely without fear of being overheard,” he said. “I’m sure you have many questions, however, we do not have much time, and there is much to discuss. I ask that you save only the important questions for the end.” He started walking down a wide road, and Hermione hurried to match his pace.

“I have brought you here because Mr Potter needs someone close to him who can balance out the rash aspects of his personality, and the war is going to get much worse, soon.” He paused and seemed to consider what to say next.

“Neither Dumbledore nor I will always be around to help Potter when he gets into a difficult situation or concocts another suicide mission, so the job falls to you. I will be teaching you various skills that I believe will be useful in the coming confrontation.”

Hermione gaped at him and opened her mouth to ask what he would teach her, but he interrupted her before she could say anything. “Before I speak further—tell me, how is Mr Potter these days?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said much in his letters,” Hermione said.

“You’re not staying with the Weasleys?” Snape’s mouth thinned.

“My parents and I are...having a difficult time agreeing on whether I should return to the Wizarding world. They know things are getting dangerous and want me to leave the country with them. I want to stay. They’re afraid I’ll vanish one day and they’ll never see me again, so it has been difficult getting them to let me go,” she said. 

“No one would think less of you if you left the country. Your parents are not wrong to want to leave—you must be aware of what is happening, and you and your parents are almost sure to be targeted before the year is out,” Snape said, voice surprisingly gentle.

“But it’s my fight too! How can I leave when other Muggle-borns are being targeted and in danger? How can I desert my friends?” Hermione exclaimed.

“Some would say you could very easily.”

“I can’t. But my parents refuse to leave without me even though they know how dangerous it is. I’m so afraid for them and I can’t stand the idea of them dying and I...I have an idea.”

“Yes?” Snape asked impatiently.

“I was thinking of altering their memories so they wouldn’t remember me and sending them away somewhere where they think they’re not themselves,” Hermione said in a rush, clenching her hands so hard her fingers dug into her palms.

There was a long pause.

“Miss Granger, you do know that the act of unauthorised alteration of a Muggle’s mind carries a near-life sentence in Azkaban?”

“I do now,” she said under her breath. “But I would do it anyway.”

“I would ask you to reconsider, but I can already tell how futile it would be,” Snape said with a long-suffering sigh. “Why are you telling me this? Did no one teach you that it is unwise to disclose your crimes before you commit them?”

“I was hoping you could help me...just a little!” Hermione added hastily at the look on Snape’s face. “I’ll do as much of the memory modification as I can and come up with a plan to move them out of the country and sell their practice and such, I just...need to make sure I do the memory charms right so if I survive the war I can restore their memories. I just need you to guide me,” she finished, twisting her fingers together.

“So you are asking me to be an accomplice to your crimes,” Snape said.

Hermione had nothing to say in response. Snape took a deep breath, and let out a loud exhale.

“This is an extremely large undertaking. It is not a simple matter to make a person think they are someone else,” he said.

“I know,” Hermione replied.

Professor Snape sighed. “I’ll help you,” he said, as if it pained him.

“You will?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“It will be good practice for you to learn to cast memory charms as if you mean it, because you will mean it, and it will be good practice for you to learn to plan more involved crimes in the name of the greater good,” Snape said, not breaking his stride.

Hermione wanted to tell him to stop referring to her actions as crimes, but she couldn't because he was technically correct.

“You’re not going to tell me what a bad idea this is?” she asked.

“Sometimes there are no right decisions to make in war. There are only bad decisions, and worse ones, and there are times when doing nothing will be the worst decision of all. This will be a lesson for you,” he said. “I am sorry,” he added.

“It’s all right.” 

Snape shrugged as if to say _if you insist._ “This makes things easier for me. We will begin by focusing on mind magic. I will also be teaching you basic healing and counter-curses, advanced defensive and protective magics, and something of the type of thinking that would help you survive this war.”

“That sounds like a lot,” she said.

“It is. I expect you to find your way to the Burrow soon—it will be safer for you to be there, and in a warded magical household you can practise your magic. We can’t afford for you to spend the entire summer without practice.” Snape held out his arm for them to stop walking. They stopped.

“Furthermore, from now on, you must never sleep in a space until you are sure it is warded securely, as your mind is the most vulnerable in sleep. I trust the Order has offered some level of warding for your home?” asked Snape as he turned to face Hermione.

“No...I don’t think the Order has yet, and I can’t do anything because of the Trace,” Hermione said with a slight frown.

Snape swore. “We’ll rectify that as soon as we reach the place I brought you here to see. There is an Apparation point in a small copse of trees between here and the henge. I will take you to your home from there and erect some wards.”

They had reached the shadows of the trees. Halfway through the thicket stood two trees with small yellow ribbons around their trunks, with a slightly shimmering space in between.

“Here it is. Muggles do not see these trees, so it is safe to Apparate from here,” Snape turned to her, half-shadowed by the trees. “ _Legilimens_ ,” he said in a low voice. “Show me your home.”

Hermione pictured the small garden at the back of her home and tried to capture every detail in her mind. This time, the mental intrusion did not hurt.

Snape looked away, breaking the connection. “Thank you. I will take you Side-Along now—we do not have much time,” he said, holding his arm out.

Hermione tentatively grabbed onto his forearm. There was a faint popping sound, then a jerk under her navel propelling her forward through space as she whirled through the air. As suddenly as it started, it ended. 

Hermione swayed on her feet, and dry heaved. When her nausea faded, she stood up. There was a yowl from a corner of the sparsely-decorated garden as Crookshanks streaked past them to the front of the house.

“Miss Granger,” Snape said sharply. “You’ve Apparated with a known Death Eater to your family home and they are looking to slaughter your family. What do you do?”

Hermione’s heart jumped in her chest before she realised that Snape was testing her.

“I Stun them and notify the Order,” she said quickly.

“Wrong answer,” Snape said.

Hermione’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. She thought this was what she should have done in the Department of Mysteries. How was it wrong?

“Why?” she asked.

“You may not be able to successfully Stun them. How many Death Eaters did you manage to successfully Stun at the Ministry? The Order may take time to rally, at which point you’d all be dead. Try again.”

Hermione thought hard. “I shake off the Death Eater through any means possible, grab my parents, and Apparate us somewhere safe,” she tried again.

“Better.”

Hermione frowned. “What’s the right answer?”

“There is no right answer. The Death Eater might Avada you on sight, at which point you would be dead. They may call for reinforcements, at which point you will also be dead. They may also decide to torture you or bring you in front of the Dark Lord for information, at which point you hope you have become much more proficient in Occlumency and may very well wish that you were dead.”

“I didn’t know my death was so likely,” Hermione said wryly.

Snape shot her a sharp look. “You are friends with Potter. People around him die.”

“I know.”

Snape muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _Gryffindors_. “I need you to go away for half an hour so we don’t activate your Trace. Do not stay closer than five hundred metres,” Snape instructed.

Hermione nodded her agreement and walked to the corner shop a few blocks away, checking her watch every few minutes. It was sweltering hot, and Snape had removed his cooling charm when they had Apparated to her backyard.

Bored, she bought a lemonade ice-lolly, walked to the local pre-preparatory school, and swung idly in the playground. She had not been surprised when Snape told her he would be training her up to help Harry—she had expected it, even, but had been surprised at how civil he was. 

Idly, she wondered what Harry and Ron were up to, and how she would get her parents to let her go to the Burrow when they were feeling so insecure about her continued presence in their lives. It had been easy leaving her parents when she was younger, so eager to spend time with her friends in the magical world, because it seemed as if she had all the time in the world for her parents later. Now that it was later, it seemed as if she had hardly any more time left with them. She was loath to go.

When twenty-five minutes had passed, Hermione started walking back. She felt the telltale tingle of wards when she stepped onto the property and found Snape leaning against a tree in her backyard, looking impatiently at a silver pocket watch. 

“I have a few last things to say to you before I leave,” he said, skipping a greeting again.

“Your Occlumency skills are adequate so far, but as soon as you arrive at the Burrow, I want you to practise more advanced techniques that require the use of magic,” he said, arms behind his back. “Everything between us must be of utmost secrecy—Mr Potter must not know of our association, nor the Order, nor Dumbledore.”

“Why can’t Dumbledore know?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“We have disagreements on how much information is to be shared amongst the Order. I do not wish to lose his confidence,” he said with a neutral expression. Hermione’s mouth parted in an “o”, but she nodded her agreement.

“I need you to act as if you have not learned any of this, and that you are not preparing for your parents to leave. It would be safer if it was a secret until they’re gone—perhaps even after,” he added as an afterthought. “Do you have any questions?”

“Will I get to know anything more about what’s going on?”

“In due course. I may send you another meeting time before the summer is out, otherwise, I will let you know about our meeting arrangements when school begins. Oh, and pick up a copy of _Basic Healing Charms and Potions_ if you haven’t already.” He turned to go.

“Wait—how can I contact you if I’ve got questions or need anything?” Hermione asked.

“You cannot. Owl post is too dangerous at the moment. This whole meeting has been dangerous, and you failed four times to check your environment for strange wizards. See that you don’t next time.” With that, Snape strode out of her garden. Hermione didn’t hear the pop of Apparation, but knew he was gone.

She sank down onto the small patch of lawn beside her mother’s half-heartedly planted flower bed, mind spinning. Professor Snape certainly didn’t pull any punches.

But that night, surrounded by the magic of Snape’s wards, Hermione slept better than she had in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who left feedback - I really appreciate it! I was blown away by all the kind words and I'm glad people are enjoying this. <3
> 
> Also, thank you everyone who reblogged my fic! I’m on tumblr [@viridiantly](https://viridiantly.tumblr.com/) \- if I am ever running late that’s where I’ll be letting you guys know.


	3. Fleur is Another Kind of Flower

Severus rolled his neck and took a sip of elderflower wine, the taste sweet and dry in his mouth. The meeting with the Granger girl had gone better than he had expected; the girl was a promising Occlumens, not surprising considering how much time she spent using her mind. Her mental defences had been strong, though he had stopped his mental probe before he could hurt her.

He had told the girl to keep things secret under the pretext that he would be sharing Dumbledore’s confidences, which had been true, but the real reason why he was teaching her Occlumency was so she could keep their association secret. Soon, he would need everyone to be assured of his loyalty to the Dark Lord and it wouldn’t do to have word of his assistance to the Muggle-born best friend of Harry Potter get out. He hoped that when the time came, the girl would be too betrayed by his actions to speak of their previous association.

He had been infuriated to discover that the Order had left the girl unprotected, but it was not surprising, considering the girl had no protections on her home against strange owl post. He had sent her a letter through a rented owl from Diagon Alley with his handwriting disguised by writing with his left hand, in case the Order was watching, but it turned out his preparations were unnecessary. The Order wouldn’t have been losing numbers so easily if they had the means to protect everyone, though people should have known to protect themselves at this point in the war. The fact that the girl showed the initiative to move her parents demonstrated she understood the severity of the situation. 

Severus had surprised himself when he agreed to help; he was tired of standing by while people died. Dumbledore had increasingly insisted on not acting on intelligence they could not explain away as having been obtained by means other than spying, convinced that Severus needed to be trusted by the Dark Lord now more than ever. Severus wondered if Dumbledore was becoming callous to the idea of death because of his impending demise.

The whole meeting with the girl had taken an hour, and now he was back at Spinner’s End with the delightful presence of Wormtail. Severus’ face darkened. It was a curious situation; he didn’t know who was being watched here—him or Wormtail. Putting two enemies together in the same house had been a stroke of genius on the part of the Dark Lord to keep them both on their toes. Dumbledore insisted this move was further proof that the Dark Lord did not trust him.

Severus sighed. He had not felt the freedom of anonymity that the Muggle world provided in a long time. It was ironic the Muggle background he so despised as a child would be his only escape as an adult. It was the only place where people treated him with the same courtesy everyone else received, where he was nobody special, where he had been able to meet people who didn’t know his complicated history. He had been able to make the occasional friendly acquaintance, even form the odd dalliance with Muggle women, if only briefly… It had been freeing to tie his hair back and bare his arms, pretend the Dark Mark was just a normal tattoo, to feel as if he could be seen as human and it wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

“Where did you go?” asked Wormtail, disturbing Severus’ train of thought. He slunk into the sitting room and was quivering in his usual slimy manner.

“None of your business,” Severus replied crisply.

“The Dark Lord will not be pleased to know this—”

“Ah yes, I’m sure he will be delighted I kept you close while I tended to my every need. Tell me now, would you like an itemised list of my dirty laundry next? The schedule for my toilet trips perhaps?”

Pettigrew drew himself up. “No need to be rude—”

Severus sneered. “Then don’t be rude. I was tending to personal business. I’m sure you know what personal means.”

Wormtail’s face twisted into a knowing leer, and he left the room, likely to paw through the kitchen. Severus shuddered to think what he was imagining in his depraved mind.

Death would be too good an end for the rat. If Wormtail’s status as the one who brought about the return of the Dark Lord hadn’t offered him so much protection, Severus would have laced his food with one of his long-acting poisons already...the one that caused a living paralysis while the victim felt as if their insides were being liquified by flames seemed like a good option, or perhaps some good old-fashioned arsenic. Nothing wrong with the tried-and-true classics.

In just over a month he was to return to school, to swap being watched round the clock to watching over others. He sobered quickly. He could do this. He could avoid committing murder, just as he could commit murder, for the greater good. What was the matter of a little damage to his soul in the name of the greater good anyway?

* * *

Hermione got out of the car and took her trunk from her father. It had taken her a week to convince her parents to let her go to the Burrow, and it had been two weeks since she recovered from the shock of receiving an “E” on her Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL.

“I’ll be fine. I couldn’t be safer anywhere than at the Burrow. Please think about what I said about the safe houses,” she said to her father as she hugged him goodbye.

“We’ve said this before—if you’re not leaving, we’re not leaving. If you’re not going into hiding then we aren’t either,” her father replied stubbornly, arms wrapping around his only daughter.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” her mother said. “I know you have a special assignment that you must use magic for over the summer—but...did it have to be so soon?”

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” Hermione reassured her mother. “And I’ll ring from the village as often as I can. The calls will be so long it’ll be like I haven’t left at all,” she said, fighting down the urge to cry. 

Professor Snape had cast wards around her house but had warned her they would not stop Death Eaters from attacking if the Death Eaters figured out where the Grangers lived—any stronger wards would hamper the ability of the Grangers to live as Muggles, as strong magic interfered with electrical appliances. Snape had said they were most likely safe for the time being, and would let her know immediately if he heard of any plans regarding her parents.

Her parents left her, and Hermione dragged her trunk along before knocking at the door of the Burrow. 

“Hermione, dear!” Mrs Weasley beamed as she engulfed her in a hug.

“Who’s there?” She heard the voice of Ron, and saw the tall red-headed boy run to the doorway. She wrapped her arms around him, and she couldn’t help but smile shyly as he squeezed her back. 

“I hear Hermione!” She spun around, and nearly knocked Harry over on his feet to hug him when he ran down the stairs to greet her. 

“It’s so good to see you two!” She smiled so broadly it hurt; she had missed her best friends.

“Is that Hermione?” a moderately French-accented voice asked. She looked on in shock as Fleur Delacour emerged from the kitchen of the Burrow, and drew up to the door to give her air kisses on her cheeks. “It is good to see you!”

“Yeah…” Ron said in a daze, not taking his eyes off Fleur. Hermione could not look at the scene. She had forgotten how much Ron had been affected by the part-Veela during the Triwizard Tournament, and time had not made it bother her any less. If anything, she felt more bothered, especially as Harry did not seem as affected by Fleur’s presence. 

“Why did it take you so long to come this summer?” Mrs Weasley asked, pointedly ignoring Fleur. 

“My parents wanted to spend more time with me before I grew up and moved out,” Hermione said, lying with a smile.

“T’ch! My boys have all grown up and they all visit regularly, though I do understand,” Mrs Weasley bustled them into the kitchen, where there was a tantalising spread of food waiting for them.

“Eat up! I’m sure you’re starving after such a long trip by car,” Mrs Weasley said, setting out plates of roast chicken, carrots, and potatoes. A large fragrant berry crumble sat in the middle of the table.

“Did I hear people arrive?” 

Hermione spun around in her chair and saw Ginny as she emerged from the stairs. Ginny gave Hermione a friendly squeeze before taking the seat beside her. 

“We need to talk after lunch,” Harry whispered into Hermione’s ear. This action was noticed by Ron and Ginny, who both looked like they were trying very hard to pretend they hadn’t noticed. Harry and Ron dug into their meals with relish, as if they hadn’t eaten for days, while the rest of them proceeded at a much more measured pace.

Hermione enjoyed the meal with only mild guilt for the amount of gravy she drowned her food in, trying not to think of how bland and healthy her parents’ cooking had been.

After the meal, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stole up to Ron’s room with an apologetic look at Ginny, who was left alone in the kitchen with her mother and Fleur. It had not taken the entire meal for Hermione to pick up on the underlying tension between the three women.

They shut the door, and Harry turned to face Hermione with a serious expression.

“We have so much to tell you,” he said in a low voice. Hermione perked up. Snape had told her to keep an eye on Harry over the summer, and she had been concerned herself. The three settled on Harry and Ron’s bed.

Harry twisted on the bed to face Hermione. “Did you know that Dumbledore brought me here?” 

“No.”

“He brought me here, and he’s telling me things now! Right before I was brought here Dumbledore took me to meet an old man to persuade him to come back to teach at Hogwarts—Slughorn was his name—and he said he’s going to give me private lessons!” Harry said, looking both excited and apprehensive.

“Oh! That’s wonderful—why do you think he’s going to do that?” Hermione asked, though she had a good idea why Dumbledore would give Harry private lessons already.

“It’s because of what happened at the Ministry,” Harry said, sharing a look with Ron. “Because of the prophecy that says I’m the Chosen One.”

“But the prophecy was smashed,” Hermione said.

_“That glass ball that smashed wasn’t the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore’s office, he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me.”_

Hermione briefly felt a twist of anger at Harry’s words; had their fight in the Department of Mysteries been a complete waste, since Dumbledore had known about the prophecy the entire time? But then she thought of the fact that people knew the Death Eaters were back, and pushed the thought out of her mind.

 _“_ — _from what it said,” Harry took a deep breath, “it looks like I’m the one who’s got to finish off Voldemort...at least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives.”_

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said sympathetically. _“Are you scared?”_

_“Not as much as I was,” said Harry. “When I first heard it, I was...but now, it seems as though I always knew I’d have to face him in the end…”_

“Yeah... makes sense though, doesn’t it? After all we’ve been through these years...Dumbledore must be planning on preparing him!” Ron said.

 _“_ Of course!” Hermione exclaimed. “ _I wonder what he’ll teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, probably...powerful counter-curses...anti-jinxes..._ maybe some healing spells... _and evasive enchantments generally,” concluded Hermione._ She thought it sounded similar to what Snape was planning on teaching her, and felt bad for Ron, who was left out. 

They chatted about their OWL results and what they had done that summer, and the boys caught Hermione up on why Fleur was staying at the Burrow—she was engaged to Bill and wanted to get to know his family. It was admirable but Hermione wished they weren’t all staying at the Burrow at the same time.

They briefly talked about Tonks and how sad she looked recently. Hermione guessed she was feeling guilty about Sirius. Harry visibly tensed at this, so Hermione changed the topic quickly. She had felt bad enough about the Department of Mysteries and she had thought it was a trap to begin with; she couldn’t think of how awful Harry felt about Sirius.

“Do you have any plans for your birthday?” Hermione asked Harry.

“No, but Mrs Weasley will make me dinner and bake me a cake, I reckon,” Harry said, throwing and catching a Snitch in his hand.

“I think we should do something different for your sixteenth birthday.”

Harry sat up straighter. “What is there to do around here?” 

“Well, we’ve never been to the Muggle town nearby, only the village here…” Ron piped up.

“Do they have a cinema?” Hermione asked in excitement. Harry perked up as well.

“Is that the Muggle moving picture things? I’ve never been,” Ron said.

“You’ve never been to see a film?” Hermione asked. Somehow she was not surprised.

“No.”

“I’ve watched films on TVs before but I’ve never been to a theatre either...the Dursleys never took me,” Harry said.

Hermione’s heart hurt for Harry. 

“We’ve got to watch a film for your birthday. It’ll be your birthday gift from me,” she said, happy and also secretly relieved there was one day when the plan wasn’t going to be playing Quidditch.

“What if they don’t allow us to go?” Ron asked.

“They’re going to let us go. I’ll talk to Tonks...she can come with us. It’ll be good for her. I’ll make sure they let us go,” Hermione said, determined.

In the end, it didn’t take much persuading for them to convince the adults to let them go to the nearby Muggle town as they promised they would have Tonks with them at all times, and Tonks agreed without a struggle.

Hermione wanted to watch _The English Patient_ or _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ but was outvoted by Harry and Ron, who both wanted to watch _Mission Impossible_. Tonks said it was the birthday boy’s choice. They had wanted to bring Ginny along, but Hermione didn’t know how she could bring along Ginny without inviting the rest of the Burrow—especially Fleur—so she said it was an event just for the three of them.

She bought them all generous servings of nachos and fizzy drinks, and then they settled into the darkened theatre.

Two hours later, they emerged blinking blearily in the bright summer afternoon sun. Ron had finished off both Harry and Hermione’s nachos, and judging by the slack-jawed expressions on both his and Harry’s faces during the film, they had enjoyed the experience thoroughly. Tonks was much more sceptical of the whole thing and muttered something about asking Kingsley about the security details, though her mood seemed much better than before.

She did not voice it, but Hermione thought whatever actual spying was like was probably less glamorous and more tedious than what was shown in the film.

Ron had greatly enjoyed the film but was confused about many aspects of the Muggle world the film portrayed. As they walked back to the Burrow, Hermione and Harry tried to explain the various Muggle things that were confusing Ron. They explained the Channel Tunnel, what computers were, how it was unlikely camera eyeglasses actually existed, and if Muggle technological security was that advanced in the heist scene then it probably couldn’t be so easily circumvented, though they all agreed it was cool to watch Tom Cruise be suspended from the ceiling. 

“Do Muggles have magic too?” he asked at one point. “That’s not possible though, because they’re Muggles, but how did they blow up the car like that?”

“They used a car bomb,” Hermione patiently explained. “It’s an explosive object Muggles control to blow cars up.” When Ron asked her how Muggles made things explode she badly tried to explain chemical reactions and atoms and shrapnel to Ron, before realising it was probably a very similar process to blowing up potions ingredients.

“Blimey, that’s how a car bomb works?” asked Ron, visibly disturbed.

“Did you not know this?” asked Hermione.

“No. Put that article I read last month in _The Prophet_ in perspective, I s’pose—no wonder people are getting worried about Muggles in addition to the Death Eaters and Dementors,” he said. “D’you think the Muggles would bomb us if they knew about us?”

“I highly doubt that would happen if they didn’t feel threatened by us, and even if they did, they’d need a pretty good reason to do so,” Hermione said crisply, disturbed at Ron’s suggestion.

Still, the film had been a good experience, and even Harry had forgotten about his worries for a while, which made it all worth it.

* * *

Severus’ upper lip curled. He sat half-hidden in the shadows in the corner of the drawing room at 12 Grimmauld Place, arms crossed in front of him. The Order meeting was dragging on, and nothing was being accomplished. People were giving their reports: Minerva gave updates on protective measures within the castle as a part of her first meeting as a participant, Lupin gave updates on his lack of success with the werewolves, Doge gave updates on what his Wizengamot friends were thinking, and Hestia deferred to Tonks to make the Auror’s office report.

“The atmosphere at the Ministry is not good. I think more Death Eaters are joining the DMLE; in the past two weeks, we had two recruits for the Hit Wizards who are unmarked but I swear they’re Death Eaters,” Tonks reported. 

Severus frowned; he had not heard of any new Death Eaters. Both Dumbledore and the Dark Lord were pressuring him to provide more useful intelligence to the Dark Lord—Dumbledore so the Dark Lord would trust Severus more, and the Dark Lord because he felt frustrated at not knowing what Dumbledore was doing now that he had withdrawn from the Ministry.

“Albus, I know you have said that secrecy is our utmost concern in this fight, but surely you see the need for more recruitment at the Ministry?” It was Shacklebolt speaking.

“No, Kingsley. Now more than ever, when we cannot be certain of the loyalty of Ministry workers, we cannot be expanding our numbers—too many lives and secrets are at stake. I cannot risk it,” Dumbledore said. “This is final,” he added, with a note of warning in his voice.

Shacklebolt made a barely perceptible grimace and dropped the subject.

Severus agreed with Shacklebolt; from his own report, the Death Eaters now outnumbered the Order two to one while rapidly gaining more members, but Dumbledore thought it was a danger to attempt expansion of the Order, and instead focused his energies on parlaying with non-human creatures and whatever he was doing with Potter.

Severus thought it was a huge waste of time—they could not promise the werewolves what they wanted, which was either freedom or Wolfsbane; they could not give the giants any more territory, and the goblins wanted rights which would see any wizard granting them thrown out of public office. The vampires were happy to keep to themselves, and fairies were barely intelligent enough to make a difference. And that was not counting his thoughts on Potter.

In his report he stressed the growing influence of the Dark Lord at the Ministry—he did not know how they were doing it when the Aurors in the Order had confirmed it was not the Imperius curse. The entire Ministry was on guard for the Imperius, as people had learned something from the first war, but he knew Yaxley was doing something to gain influence at the Ministry, and it was working, even if it was subtle. The mood at the Ministry was changing, according to reports, though nobody could figure out why or how.

The Dark Lord was keeping very quiet about Yaxley’s methods. After the fiasco at the Department of Mysteries, he was playing all his cards close to the chest, and no other Death Eaters knew what was going on. It was frustrating.

The meeting adjourned after Arthur’s report, and people began to slowly trickle out of the room. Severus timed his exit so Dumbledore could not catch him; he was not in the mood to deal with the old man.

“Severus.” Kingsley nodded at him as he passed by.

“Kingsley.” Severus nodded back. He paused for a moment.

“You don’t have to recruit for the Order of the Phoenix to fight this war,” Severus said. He looked into Kingsley’s eyes, determined the other man had gotten his message, then left, robes snapping behind him.

* * *

Hermione’s breath caught as Ron dove into another save. They had been playing Quidditch almost every day as there wasn’t much to do, with Ron and Ginny on one team and her and Harry on another. 

She felt as if Ron had been noticing her during the summer, in the way he occasionally looked at her a second longer than usual, and couldn’t help but feel a little excited and anxious about it all. Ginny had taken to sending her knowing looks and Harry was oblivious as he always was.

It was all quite pleasant until Fleur walked into a room. Then it seemed like everything Hermione had ever done—all her intelligence and care and loyalty—ceased to matter because Hermione Granger stopped existing as soon as Fleur Delacour walked into a room. At least to Ron. Every time it happened, it hurt, and reminded her of the time she had overheard her aunt say to her mother “at least the girl is smart, even if she isn’t much to look at.''

Like this very moment. Fleur had arrived in the yard, carrying a pitcher of ice-cold pumpkin juice and a tray of glasses, and Ron’s attention was instantly drawn in her direction. Hermione buried the instinctive swell of insecurity and hurt that rose from deep within her mind, using Occlumency to lock the feelings away. She had been practising using her magic to lock away certain emotions the entire time at the Burrow, and it was incredible how well it worked, and how well it helped her be more in control of her feelings and be pleasant to people around her.

She couldn’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction when Harry’s Quaffle hit Ron square in the face.

“Oi! Watch where you throw that thing!” Ron yelped. Harry grinned, and Hermione and Ginny shared smirks at Ron’s comeuppance. Then they all descended from the air for a drink.

Later, lying in the fresh-mown lawn with the others, Hermione thought it had been an incredibly pleasant summer, despite all that had happened, the bad news, and danger lurking just outside of their bubble at the Burrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all the feedback, it makes me really happy to hear what you all think! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	4. Wormwood and Asphodel

Severus was walking off his tension outside the castle entrance when the pale silver glow of a Patronus approached him. It was misshapen, as if the caster couldn’t quite power it, but it was unmistakably a wolf. What was Lupin doing near Hogwarts?

“I’ve got Harry at the gates. Please come fetch him,” the voice of Tonks came from the wolf. Severus’ footsteps briefly paused. It was hard to believe anyone could develop feelings for Lupin—the man who never had the nerve to stand up to his friends despite knowing better, but it was not surprising to Severus as most people had no taste.

He didn’t waste too much thought on the new object of Tonks’ affection, however. It was the notion that Potter had yet again managed to get into mischief the moment he was away from supervision that had him tensing.

Severus knew it was sheer arrogance that drove the boy to ignore the rules over and over again, so convinced of his own abilities with no regard for the consequences of his actions, leaving a trail of mess and destruction in his wake. He thought the loss of his godfather would have tempered the child, but obviously he was wrong.

Striding quickly to the gates, his mood darkened when he saw the blood on the boy’s face, who was out of uniform. The only place he could have received the bloody nose was on the Express, which meant he had been fighting with other students, and the fact he wasn’t in uniform meant he cared more about picking a fight than observing the basic rules about being a student. Did he think being the Chosen One put him above the other students?

Severus made a cutting remark about Potter’s lack of uniform and opened the creaking gates. Tonks made some noise about meaning for someone else to receive her message, her hair an unusual mousy brown in her wandlight, which reminded Severus—

_“I was interested to see your new Patronus.”_ He shut the gate with a clang. _“I think you were better off with the old one. The new one looks weak,”_ he said, holding back from the old anger the werewolf usually stirred up in him. The Auror could do so much better than a self-defeatist werewolf almost double her age who obviously didn’t care for her, had no backbone to stand up to others despite pretending to do what was right, and had repeatedly put the students of Hogwarts at risk with his careless behaviour surrounding his transformations. Severus caught a flash of her anger before he turned away to go.

He could feel Potter projecting his hatred for him from where he stood, and felt almost vindicated that the boy blamed him for Sirius’ death. The boy was just like James Potter to loathe him on sight, and blame people around him for the consequences of his own actions. Others around Severus said the boy was _“modest, likeable, and reasonably talented”_ (actually, only Dumbledore said that—most others didn’t dare speak to him about the boy), but he could not see any of it.

Severus tried to goad Potter into revealing what he had done to arrive at school late and bloodied, the boy’s temper a reliable point of pressure, but he stayed silent.

When they reached the Great Hall, Harry left him as soon as he could, clearly eager to leave his presence, a sentiment which Severus shared completely.

He tuned out most of Dumbledore’s speech and the shocked mutterings when it was announced that Horace had returned to teach Potions. A flicker of amusement warmed his chest when Potter protested his post to the Defence position; it was probably not healthy how much he enjoyed goading the boy, but he had little that gave him joy during these dark times. Minerva looked to be the only person who was genuinely pleased for his appointment to the Defence post.

Severus watched the Hall with an air of detachment and a self-satisfied look on his face, even though he felt otherwise. The position he wanted was his, and he could prepare the children for what was coming the way he had wanted to for years, but his victory felt hollow. The only reason he had the position was because the worst was going to come to pass, and they needed him for the worst.

* * *

The first morning back to school had always been Hermione’s favourite day of the year. She loved the sense of potential the beginning of a new school year carried—the promise of new knowledge, new beginnings with the other students, new beginnings with her teachers, and new books to read. Even the air seemed to hold a different quality in the early days of September, crisp from the morning chill but not yet uncomfortably cold.

It had been good to see Neville the evening before, especially since she had not seen much of him before the summer; despite being closer to Harry and Ron, Neville was still her first friend at Hogwarts, and Hermione never forgot that. It had even been nice to see Parvati and Lavender again. Things had been difficult with the two girls in her first year, but over the years they had grown used to each other as they slept in the same dorm, though Parvati and Lavender were still closer to each other than they were to Hermione.

Ancient Runes was her first class, and—to her secret delight—they were assigned a fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and four readings in various books. She had missed the feeling of having assignments to accomplish, though she had studied plenty of Occlumency and healing magic over the summer, and it was nice to have something to focus on that would take her mind away from the nightmares of being chased by Death Eaters that sometimes haunted her waking hours. She had managed to Occlude most of the memories away, and her dreams of being chased were fewer and fainter, but she would still wake up feeling as if she had been running, and still felt uncomfortable when she felt people walking behind her.

It wasn’t until she started one of the readings for Runes that she realised NEWT-level work was going to be much, much more difficult than previous years, which was when anxiety began to bleed into her excitement for the new school year.

She was voicing her anxiety about homework with Harry and Ron in the hallway outside of the Defence classroom when Snape materialised seemingly out of nowhere and told them to go inside. 

It was immediately obvious Defence classes with Snape were going to be quite different from before, just from the presence of the images of tortured people on the walls, and the curtained windows. Hermione held her breath as she waited for Snape to begin. His speeches from the beginning of the semester were always memorable.

_“The Dark Arts,” said Snape, “are many, varied, ever-changing and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.”_

She rushed to copy down every word.

_“Your defences,” said Snape, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the Arts you seek to undo.”_

They practised non-verbal jinxes and shield charms, which Hermione mastered quickly while the other students struggled. Her success she attributed to her practice with Occlumency she had done at the Burrow that summer, as it was a form of non-verbal magic.

Things progressed as normal until Snape approached the boys. Hermione tensed as he drew closer. Ron was attempting to jinx Harry but had not yet managed it.

_“Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here—let me show you—”_

Before he could cast, Harry had shouted, _“Protego!”_

The charm was so strong Snape was knocked back into a desk, and the whole class watched as he righted himself and slowly approached Harry.

_“Do you remember me telling you we are practising **non-verbal** spells, Potter?”_

_“Yes,” said Harry stiffly._

_“Yes **sir**.”_

_“There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Professor.”_

Hermione groaned. Why did Harry have to lose control of his tongue so easily in front of Snape? Why did Snape have to antagonise Harry so much?

Harry earned himself detention for the retort and spent the rest of the class sullenly glaring at Snape. Snape, for his part, spent the rest of the class ignoring Harry.

“Miss Granger, a word?” Snape said as the rest of the class made to leave.

Harry and Ron shot Snape dark looks, but Hermione shook her head and shooed them out the door. Professor Snape waited at his desk, hands clasped, until all the other students had left. 

“As you may be aware, we have a new Potions professor at the school,” he said.

“Yes, sir?” Hermione asked, unsure what Slughorn had to do with anything.

“One of the conditions for Professor Slughorn’s return was that he need not do the brewing for the Infirmary. That happy task falls to me. However, as I am dealing with a new curriculum, I find myself short on time, and Professor Dumbledore has suggested I take on an assistant to help me brew.”

“I see?” Hermione said, not quite believing Snape was asking her for assistance.

Snape ignored her disbelief. “We will be brewing twice a week at seven, starting tomorrow evening, in the smaller potions lab in the dungeons. It’s two doors down from the main Potions classroom. Don’t forget to review what you have learned in _Basic Healing Charms and Potions.”_ With that, Snape opened the door wandlessly and pointed her out.

Suddenly, it made sense why Snape had asked her to brew _—_ she knew he meant the Occlumency text when he mentioned _Basic Healing Charms and Potions,_ and was relieved Snape had thought of a cover for them to meet. 

She had just caught up to Harry and Ron when she heard Ron tell Harry what he did in class was brilliant. Her cheeks warmed in anger _—_ it was unbelievable how disrespectful Ron was being _—_ and she asked Harry why he did it.

_“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn’t notice!” fumed Harry. “Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that **unfixed, indestructible** stuff—”_

_“Well,” said Hermione,_ a tad impatiently, _“I thought he sounded a bit like you.”_

_“Like **me**?” _Harry goggled.

_“Yes, when you were telling us what it’s like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn’t just memorising a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts—well, wasn’t that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?”_ Hermione smiled smugly as she pointed out the similarities between the way Harry and Snape thought.

Harry was struck speechless. 

They spent their next free period speculating what Dumbledore would teach Harry in his upcoming meeting the coming Saturday, then she went off to Arithmancy. 

She ran into Luna on her way to Arithmancy class and greeted her, but Luna just looked at Hermione and cocked her head.

“You’re overdoing it, I think,” she said in that dreamy voice of hers, before she skipped off, dirty-blonde hair swaying behind her. Hermione looked after Luna, feeling confused and wrong-footed the way she always did after an encounter with the girl, but was happy to see another friend who had gone to the Department of Mysteries with them back at school safe and well.

NEWT-level Arithmancy also proved much harder than OWL-level Arithmancy, but Hermione enjoyed the difficulty, finding a sense of satisfaction every time she found the answer to a problem, and joy in using logic to solve problems for once. The blind belief in “because it’s magic” reasoning was still hard for her to accept about the wizarding world, and she relished the ability to use logic in magic, even if it was in a limited way.

* * *

Come time for Potions, Hermione was vibrating with eagerness to see what Slughorn would be like, as her first Potions instructor who was not Snape. The first sign something was different were the cauldrons of completed potions displayed. Harry, Ron, Ernie, and Hermione sat at a table closest to a gold-coloured cauldron which had _Amortentia_ of all things in it. She inhaled deeply _—_ it smelled like the freshly mown grass of the Burrow, new parchment that smelled like the perfumed letter paper that Ron had gifted her last Christmas, and a faintly familiar scent she couldn’t quite decipher. 

There was something about the potions Slughorn had chosen that pricked at her mind _—_ something about Amortentia, Felix Felicis, and Draught of Living Death. This feeling increased when she looked at the ingredients list for Draught of Living Death. While Slughorn’s introduction was theatrical and inspired interest in the potions themselves, it lacked the elegance of Snape’s beginning of the year speeches.

She flushed with pride when Harry had told Slughorn she was “best in the year” when she earned twenty points for Gryffindor, which caused Draco Malfoy to grimace as if he had been sucking a lemon.

The genial atmosphere of Slughorn’s Potions class was a pleasant change of pace, and she was even getting used to working out of a textbook instead of Snape’s chalkboard instructions when she noticed Harry wasn’t following the textbook directions. The class stopped being enjoyable when her potion didn’t turn out as well as it usually did, and it was an unpleasant surprise at the end when Harry won the Felix Felicis. How could that have happened? _She_ was the best in the year.

It frustrated her when she found out Harry had cheated by using different instructions from a book and thought little of passing someone else’s work as his own. He needed the Felix Felicis more than she could, but she hoped he would eventually come to his senses and turn the book in. It wasn’t fair to the rest of the class Harry had different _—better,_ she grudgingly admitted _—_ instructions to the rest of them. She’d huffed when Ron made the point that Harry had taken a risk in using the different instructions and therefore earned it _—_ that completely missed the point!

Hermione had nearly forgotten about her prickling feeling at the beginning of Potions class when she returned to her dorm that night. On a hunch, she dug through the old notes she kept on hand to lend to younger students and found the notes from her first ever class of potions. Crookshanks let out a disgruntled mrrow as she gently shoved him out of the way to make space on her bed for the many sheaves of yellowing parchment.

“Ah-ha!” she muttered, as she unrolled the first scroll. She had copied down Snape’s words near-verbatim in her early years. Her faded first-year handwriting hit her with a pang of nostalgia.

_“As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”_

_Questions:_

_1\. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?_

_2\. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?_

_3\. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?_

_Answers:_

_1\. Draught of Living Death_

_2\. Stomach of a goat, cures most poisons_

_3\. They are the same plant_

Hermione wondered if Snape had been working off Slughorn’s curriculum, or if it was a coincidence their sixth-year introductory class lined up with Snape’s speech. “Bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses” could refer to Amortentia, “bottle fame, brew glory” could refer to Felix Felicis, and “stopper death” could refer to the Draught of Living Death, which aside from putting a sleeper into a deep sleep could put a dying body into stasis for a time.

It was more interesting looking at the plants listed; ever since she had copied down _Floriography and Potions Making_ she had been analysing potions ingredients to see if she could see the connection between the meanings of the plants and the subsequent potions. 

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. Snape only mentioned asphodel and wormwood in his question about Draught of Living Death—but she knew there were more crucial ingredients involved. It was extremely unlike him to omit ingredients when referring to a potion. 

Asphodel meant “my regrets follow you to the grave”, and wormwood stood for “absence” or “bitter sorrow”. The actual Draught of Living Death also contained Sopophorous beans, which meant “sleep deeply”. Together the plants could be read to mean “sleep deeply in absence of regrets that follow you to the grave”, which made sense for the Draught of Living Death, but with just asphodel and wormwood…it meant “my bitter regrets follow you to the grave”. Though wolfsbane and monkshood were the same plant, they had separate meanings—wolfsbane for “misanthropy” and monkshood for “chivalrous”. 

Hermione looked down at her notes, reminded of her Floriography text. Was Snape sending a message? Was he telling them he hated people but was chivalrous, and bitterly regretted someone’s death? Hermione thought it was a bit far-fetched— _why_ would Snape communicate in code to a class of first-year potions students who would certainly not understand it? But the messages made a strange sort of sense that convinced her he _was_ speaking in code, whatever his reasons were. She briefly contemplated asking him if he meant to do so before she decided she enjoyed the semi-civil way he spoke to her in private too much to risk his ire at asking such a personal question.

In her entire time in his classes, she had never heard him share personal information. Flitwick enjoyed talking about his nieces and nephews, Sprout liked to talk about her adventures in eating various edible but difficult to grow plants, and McGonagall even shared stories of her Transfiguration mishaps as a young lass, but Snape might as well have reached the planet fully formed as a Potions Master.

She could also see it clearly in her mind, Snape looking at her incredulously. “Miss Granger, why the _ever-loving-hell_ do you remember my exact words from your first class of Potions six years ago?” 

Of course, the real Snape would say something much more elegant and cutting to express this sentiment; even in her imagination, she knew she didn’t have the man’s way with words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I've strained my hands, wrists, and arms recently, so I can only upload half of what chapter 4 was, as this was what I had edited so far; my apologies for the shorter chapter. I may also miss my update next Saturday.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the feedback I've received so far - it's been amazing seeing what everyone thinks! I may not respond to comments here for a bit, but I am resting and doing physio so I hope I will be able to write and interact with everyone again soon. :) I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I'm looking forward to seeing what people think!


	5. Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oct 31 update: I will not be able to post ch6 this week as I’ve re-injured my wrists/arms. 😩 Ch6 will go up next week, and I will be switching to a biweekly schedule until my wrists/arms recover completely.

The day after the strange revelation about Professor Snape’s first class saw Hermione’s first Herbology, Charms, and Transfiguration classes, which further continued the theme of difficult NEWT-level courses. She rushed through dinner so she could have a little time to work on her essays after her lesson with Snape. After she finished her cottage pie, she told the boys she was going to be away for the evening brewing for the Infirmary.

“What are you doing that for?” Ron asked around a mouthful of mash.

“They were looking for someone to help because neither Professor Slughorn nor Professor Snape has the time to do so, and I thought it would be useful for the future if I learned how to make healing potions,” Hermione replied in a low voice, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

Harry said it sounded like a good idea and left it at that. Hermione carefully avoided mentioning the fact she would be brewing with Snape; she knew Harry and Ron wouldn’t be pleased and she would deal with it when they found out.

She approached the dungeons with anticipation. She had never had private lessons with a professor before _—_ would Professor Snape be more demanding, or less? Would he be more civil than usual or not?

She firmly knocked on the door three times and waited.

“Enter,” said Snape from inside.

Hermione cautiously pushed open the door. She was surprised at the sight that greeted her _—_ there were four cauldrons, and two sets of potions-making instruments set up.

“Good evening, Professor,” she said, approaching the workbench with uncertainty.

“Miss Granger. Tonight you will be brewing bruise salve.” He gestured to where he had set down written instructions for brewing one potion with two cauldrons simultaneously, and motioned for her to approach that set of the cauldrons.

“Sir?” Hermione asked.

 _“_ What was unclear _?”_

“I thought...we were going to work on Occlumency, sir,” she said hesitantly.

Snape made an impatient sound. “I am taking precious time from my schedule to train you, so you might as well make yourself useful, and actually brewing will make it appear as if nothing is out of the ordinary if anyone drops by.” He turned away from her to face his own cauldron. “These pastes will need to rest for an hour before the final step, which should leave ample time to take measure of your abilities so far and work on what you need to practice next.”

They began brewing in silence. Hermione felt vindicated when her potion progressed as well as it always had before Slughorn, even though she was handling two cauldrons instead of one.

It was still silent when Hermione asked a question that had been on her mind since the summer. “Professor?” she ventured.

“What is it?” Snape sounded only mildly irritated, so she soldiered on.

“Do the Death Eaters know about bombs?”

Snape’s brows furrowed. “Of course the Death Eaters know about bombs. The Dark Lord thinks we’re too good for filthy Muggle technology, as do the other Death Eaters _—_ they’re convinced they make better explosions with magic. Also magic can render Muggle bombs useless. Why the sudden interest?”

“Just something I read in the _Daily Prophet_ ,” Hermione said hastily. She didn’t want to bring up Ron’s fear of Muggles bombing wizards, but Snape’s answer had been reassuring. Then something else occurred to her. “If magic renders bombs useless, why do wizards fear bombs?”

Snape turned his head and briefly stared at her. “The fear is less to do with the destructive power of bombs and more to do with how little Muggles value life. Have you ever seen the Death Eaters blow up entire portions of the wizarding world?”

“No…”

He settled his stirring rod down, and crossed his arms. “That’s because even Death Eaters would think twice of using bombs in any event that could kill a Pureblood, even by accident.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, surprised.

Snape turned to her fully now, and held her gaze with his dark eyes. “Do you know why Death Eaters want to subjugate Muggles and Muggleborns, Miss Granger?”

“Because they hate us.”

Snape sneered. “Yes, of course, the ‘they hate you because they’re evil’ explanation. But _why?_ Use that frightfully overwrought mind of yours. _”_

She frowned thoughtfully, thinking of what Snape said about how little Muggles valued life from a wizarding perspective. Surely Snape knew better than that, based on how he carried himself, considering his familiarity with the Muggle world? But Snape was not speaking of himself...she hoped.

Hermione spoke cautiously, “Because we’re different, and there are always going to be people who hate others for being different. Because Purebloods don’t understand the Muggle world, and what they do know came from when Muggles lived less developed lives. And then Muggles changed, and changed so much in the last hundred years, and became even better at violence. And there are so many more Muggles than wizards. So Purebloods fear us.”

Snape looked down at her with an almost satisfied expression on his face. “Yes. You’ve hit on some of the major reasons. And of course power. And how little those who already have power wish to share it.” “So...it _is_ a little bit of ‘they hate us because they’re evil’,” Hermione said before she could stop herself.

Snape huffed but said nothing. They lapsed into silence for a moment, watching their simmering cauldrons and waiting for the colour to change.

“But it’s interesting how the _Prophet_ is reporting on so much more Muggle news all of a sudden,” she continued, “and only the news that casts Muggles in the worst light possible.”

“No, no stories of the daring heroics of firemen rescuing cats from trees or the elderly finding their long-lost friends,” Snape said snidely, not taking his eyes off the cauldrons.

It startled her for a moment, that Snape would know what kind of fluff pieces made their way into small town newspapers, before she realised that perhaps he was referring to the type of reporting that happened in other wizarding publications like Witch Weekly.

The fact that he wasn’t telling her to shut up prompted her to say more. “Though, I mean, I suppose wizards wouldn’t understand scientific breakthroughs or progress with the UN and that kind of thing...”

“What are you talking about?” Snape asked, abruptly turning from his cauldrons to face her. Hermione shrank back from his scrutiny.

“I mean, science is the Muggle way of understanding the world and using their observations to invent new things—” she started, struggling to explain science to a wizard.

“I know what science is, Miss Granger,” Snape said, voice clipped. “I know what bombs are and how they work. It is both arrogant and dangerous to underestimate what other people know. Do you think wizards are incapable of understanding science? Do you think the Death Eaters reached their conclusion on Muggle bombs entirely because they are prejudiced against Muggles?”

Hermione suddenly realised how badly she had misspoken.“No! I just meant...the _Prophet_ doesn’t explain any of the good in the Muggle world, and provides no balance to their news coverage at all. It’s all sensationalism,” Hermione said, twisting the edges of her skirt anxiously.

“I see,” Snape said. “Is it all sensationalism though?” he asked. “Does the Muggle news not read like this as well? Why should the _Prophet_ be held to a higher standard than Muggle reporting? But as fascinating as all this talk about the editorial direction of the _Prophet_ is, we need to return to brewing.”

Hermione couldn’t find anything to say to that, though she did not entirely agree with what Snape said. But she thought about it. They spent the rest of the time until their one-hour break brewing in silence.

* * *

“Let us begin,” Snape said, the moment she put her stirring rod down.

“I want to see you relaxed with no defences, to gauge what your natural state of mind is,” he said, raising his wand.

“Look into my eyes,” he commanded.

Hermione raised her eyes and relaxed her mind. She tried to not focus on her centreing visualisation or anything else but felt him wrench himself from her mind shortly after he went in.

Snape frowned and studied Hermione’s eyes critically.

“Miss Granger, I wanted you to stop Occluding completely.”

“I have,” said Hermione, confused.

“You have not—you are not so good yet that you can fool anyone into thinking you aren’t repressing your emotions, and right now you are Occluding heavily, even if you are focused on a visualisation. Overachieving as this accomplishment is, this was not what I asked for. Try to stop,” he looked into her eyes again. “Slow your thoughts down, pay attention to your mind.”

“Now, listen very carefully to me: your constant need for the affirmation of your peers and elders makes you weak.”

Hermione flinched. The fact that she was very sensitive to what people thought of her was not news to her, but it hurt to hear Snape put it in such bald terms. It wasn’t noticeable before, but now she was paying attention she could feel her magic automatically seal up the familiar pang of hurt and insecurity before she could really feel it. She tried to relax her mind and let herself feel her response to the cutting statement, but she couldn’t. The seal on her emotions was too strong.

“I can’t,” she whispered, horrified.

Professor Snape exhaled loudly.

“Look into my eyes again. I am going to help you stop Occluding, but this may be a bit unpleasant.”

His face was a little closer to hers, and she focused on his eyes, which looked like fathomless tunnels in the dim lighting of the classroom. His mental presence in her head was more obvious this time, exerting a slightly uncomfortable pressure inside her head.

She felt as if he was sifting through her thoughts, but she did not know what he was looking for. She found herself reliving memories of looking at the long purple scar slashing across her chest, feeling the despair of never being beautiful. She found herself reliving Harry telling her about his confrontation with Malfoy, Harry’s upcoming lesson with Dumbledore, Harry’s sudden improvement during potions with his ill-gotten textbook, and a flash of feeling second-best in potions class— _not good enough, never good enough_ —just a whisper of a thought, and suddenly the pressure in her head grew as he focused on the feeling. Instinctively she felt her mind try to bury it, but he was focused on the emotion and magnifying it until it was all she could think about. It was mortifying.

 _Don’t fight this_ , he thought in her head, and she tried to relax while a sense of rising panic grew at the back of her head. She felt like a distant observer in her own mind. It felt as though he had cast a net into her mind and was dredging up every single hurtful thought and fear she had buried in the past several weeks.

It was as if the cap of a badly shaken fizzy drink bottle had popped off—emotions erupted within herself and she lost her breath to the pain of realising how inadequate she was compared with Fleur, how she would never be any good at Potions, how Ron would never notice her, how she would never save her parents, how she couldn’t even have saved herself and only survived the Department of Mysteries by a lucky fluke. The terrifying fear of death came back all at once, and her head spun with the magnitude of the emotion.

She barely noticed when she stopped feeling Snape in her mind and started to cry. One minute tears barely began to sting her eyes, and the next minute she was hyperventilating and gasping for air as she ugly cried into her handkerchief. She shook like a leaf as her feelings rushed through her.

Professor Snape stood next to his desk impassively as Hermione broke down, and watched her with his arms crossed.

Just when she thought she would stop crying, she would start all over again. At some point she completely saturated her handkerchief, and was so distraught she didn’t notice Snape cast a drying charm at it.

He made no outward signs of concern as he watched her cry, not moving even when he cast the occasional drying charm.

Finally, after an age, she stopped crying, and her trembling calmed. Her head felt sore and stuffy.

Snape looked at her pensively. “How long have you been Occluding your dreams and your feelings?” he finally asked.

“A few weeks,” Hermione mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

“You could have caused permanent damage to yourself. Repress your feelings long enough and you can kill yourself,” he scowled at the shocked look on Hermione’s face. “Did you think stopping yourself from feeling discomfort was a good thing? Discomfort tells us when things are wrong either within us or within our environment. Cutting off one of your senses is dangerous.”

Hermione swallowed thickly. “I see. Thank you, Professor,” she said, eyes still lowered in shame.

“There is a difference between hiding thoughts and feelings that can be dangerous if known by others, and thoughts and feeling from yourself, which can be dangerous if not known by yourself. The practice of Occlumency is meant for keeping secrets from others, not yourself,” he said, scowling. “I realise the text does not explain this, but this should have been self-evident.”

Snape took a moment to inspect the potions before addressing her again. “In the future I expect you to be _in control_ of your emotions, not push them away. I understand you are dealing with overwhelming fear and it is difficult to function under these circumstances, but _you are safe here at Hogwarts right now_ , I will tell you when you are not, and you need to become used to functioning with this kind of fear because we are at war.”

He straightened up and looked her in the eye. “You must focus on the present, and what needs to be done right now—you cannot lose your focus. There is no use fearing events that have passed that may or may not happen again. It is easier said than done, but you must convince yourself of the truth of this—speak to Madam Pomfrey for some Dreamless Sleep or Calming Draughts if you must, though you should let your mind deal with your fears as much as you can.”

Hermione nodded, eyes finally dried.

“And finally, I must address a few things. I see now Mr Potter was delayed to the opening feast because of a small adventure he had with Mr Malfoy. I understand I am asking the impossible, but do try to keep a closer eye on Mr Potter in the future so situations like this do not arise again. It could have been dangerous for Potter if Mr Malfoy had actually been a Death Eater with ill-intent towards him.”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione said miserably.

“I will teach you how to better help Mr Potter, but you must do the work yourself, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to find a way to deal with your emotions and remain in control of them as your homework for the next while. This will be crucial before I can begin to teach you some of the Dark Arts.”

“The _Dark Arts?_ ”

“Don’t sound so surprised. That was quite the dark jinx you used on Miss Edgecombe.”

Hermione flushed. “What kind of Dark Arts will you be teaching me?” she asked, ignoring his jab.

“Mind magic, mostly,” Snape said.

“Mind magic?” Hermione echoed dumbly.

“Come now, did you think mind control, Legilimency, wiping memories, and planting false memories was _Light_ magic?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably on her stool.

“But what about duelling, sir? If I’m to be helping Harry shouldn’t I be learning to duel as well?”

“Most Death Eaters have years of experience being ruthless murderers. There is nothing I can do in a short period of time to prepare you for such confrontations and expect you to win—however, I can give you guidance to help you avoid and escape any such confrontations, especially so you can avoid another scenario like the Department of Mysteries.” Snape paused at the look on Hermione’s face.

“There is no shame in surviving to fight another day when outclassed by your opponent,” he elaborated further, “You do not have the sheer firepower and instincts for duelling Potter does, but unlike Potter, you have a mind. I’m sure you can see the usefulness of such skills in a confrontation.”

Hermione murmured her agreement, though she was a little stung by Snape’s assessment of her abilities, even if it was honest. And she was a little flattered.

“As always, I expect your discretion in this matter. Occlude your thoughts and sensitive memories regularly, but not your feelings—that is safe.”

“O-of course, sir.”

“That’s enough for tonight,” he said and gestured to the door, which opened without her noticing.

“What about the potions?” Hermione asked, startled.

“I can finish them myself,” he replied, and set about starting each potion one after another, managing the four potions at once.

“Also, Miss Granger…”

“Yes?”

“It’s unbecoming and unwise to underestimate yourself so much. You need to know what you are capable of in this war, and it would not do to over- or underestimate yourself, just as it would not do to underestimate or overestimate others.”

“I—”

“You can go now.”

Hermione was speechless, and left without another word. She was also impressed and annoyed that the man had been able to brew four cauldrons at the same time all along. And he called _her_ insufferable.

* * *

Severus patrolled the dungeons, deep in thought. He had been surprised to learn the depths to which the Granger girl had been affected by her time in the Department of Mysteries, though in retrospect he should have expected it. For all the things she had faced in her school years up to this point, that had been her first confrontation with the face of the enemy. He hoped she would find a handle on her feelings soon; he had lived his entire life looking over his shoulders for the enemy, but he could tell the visceral experience of being chased by danger had come as a shock to the girl.

And Albus was giving the boy private lessons. Dumbledore had never mentioned anything to him, though Severus assumed the headmaster was preparing Potter for the coming confrontation.

It had been a shock seeing his childhood handwriting on his old potions text in Granger’s mind—he had not noticed how much his writing had changed since he was young, but evidently it had. So, Potter had his old potions book and was showing up Granger, was he? Severus considered bringing this up to Albus before he dismissed the idea. It was not his business if Slughorn could not detect a student cheating. He felt surprisingly unbothered by the whole affair; in the grand scheme of things, Potter having access to his old Potions notes didn’t seem like much of an issue—he could hardly remember what he wrote, and maybe the boy would learn something for once.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. Granger had been his best Potions student in her year, though she did not have deep insight into the art—either that, or she was too afraid to deviate from written instructions. She took instruction well and understood things when they were explained, but she didn’t tend to take things on faith, a quality that was necessary to do the kind of experimentation one had to do to advance in the Potions field.

He smirked at the idea of the girl competing with his teenage self—no doubt she would find it frustrating being second-best in one of her classes, but he rather thought it would be a good experience for her.

He wondered what his teenage self would have made of her. Annoyed, probably. He wouldn’t have appreciated her over-eager classroom manner, which was apparently a front for insecurity, which he understood all too well when he was younger. From what he had heard of her from other teachers though, he suspected he would have at least respected her for her intelligence. He wondered what the rest of the Slytherins would have thought if she had been in his year. Maybe it would’ve given some of them pause for thought—two incredibly intelligent and talented Gryffindor Muggleborns… He frowned, and stopped himself before he finished the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful comments and feedback last week! Sorry I haven't been replying to comments - my wrists and arms are still not entirely well, so I have limited time I can use to type every day. But I’m doing better, and next week’s update should go up on time, or close to it! Thanks everyone again for all the support and kind comments, and especially to the kind person who recced this fic on facebook. <3 Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	6. Rosemary

Severus rubbed his eyes. It was late, it was chilly in the dungeons, and he had endless marking to do. In front of him sat a stack of fourth-year essays which he was tempted to toss into the flickering flames behind the grate of his sitting-room fireplace. It was only the first week of school; normally Severus would be dreaming about the end of the school year, but not this year. It seemed questionable that most of the students had learned _anything_ in Defence over the years. Looking down at the current essay he was marking, he was tempted to cross out everything with red ink. _“The difference between ghosts and Inferi is that one is invisible,”_ indeed. But it was too late to worry about their previous lessons now; he had one year to prepare the students, if that. He would do what he could.

He exhaled slowly after scratching out another scathing comment. When was the last time he had written anything not related to his job? There were faint memories of enjoying the process of putting together an essay, of following a thread of logic to a satisfying conclusion, of picking just the right word. His latest speech for his Defence class had been gratifying to write, but he had a feeling it had gone over the heads of most of the dunderheads he taught.

He never imagined in his youth that he would be working two jobs and taking care of hundreds of children at the age of thirty-six.

* * *

In the days after the lesson with Snape, Hermione found herself fighting tears at all times of day and dreams of Death Eaters at night. She found herself thinking over Snape’s words at odd times of day. “ _It’s unbecoming and unwise to underestimate yourself so much”_ ran through her head frequently; it sounded like praise coming from Snape, who she respected the most of all her professors, though the reason had little to do with his teaching ability and everything with his obvious intellect and involvement in the war.

It was Luna, of all people, who helped her find her centre of balance again. Luna kept her company in the library, and sat close to her side on the window seat in the library when she felt close to tears, and told her that it was all right to be afraid but that she didn’t need to let her fears control her. Somehow Luna managed to explain things to her in a way that made everything Snape told her to do seem very simple. 

Crookshanks was also very helpful during this time, as he patiently put up with her tears and clinginess, going as far as to lick the tears off her face on occasion.

Harry and Ron noticed something was off with her, but they did not seem comfortable addressing whatever was bothering her. Disregarding her fragile emotional state from a lack of Occlumency, she felt stretched thin and irritable from her classes and extra studies with Snape, and it was all the more irritating whenever she saw Harry with the Half-Blood Prince’s book.

She didn’t like the book because she just didn’t _understand_ —the assigned textbook had all the explanations for why things were supposed to work, and the logic in the text was _clear_ , but the Prince ignored the written text and wrote down alterations with no discernable rhyme or reason. Some of the Prince’s alterations directly contradicted the text; they didn’t make sense to her, and she thought Harry was cheating himself of understanding potions. 

Her mood was not much better when it was time for another session with Professor Snape. The time was set for Saturday evening with a note on the first Defence essay she received back—only an E!—which she excused to Harry and Ron by saying that something had come up at the Infirmary and she needed to brew again. They didn’t seem to think anything strange was going on, though Ron seemed a little more disappointed than usual she was not going to be spending the evening with them, which warmed her heart.

Saturday evening arrived quickly.

“Enter,” came Snape’s voice, just loud enough to be audible after she knocked at the dungeon lab doors. Hermione shivered and wrapped her robes closer around her; the dungeons were always cold.

He pointed to the brewing setup without looking at her and turned back to scribbling red comments on his piles of parchment. There was a single large black cauldron with instructions for Pepper-Up. Hermione greeted Professor Snape and set to work immediately. It was an easy potion to brew, and it wasn’t long before she was finished.

“I’m done,” she said, after she finished bottling the potion.

“I see,” he said, and briefly studied the murky contents of her bottles. His face betrayed no emotion, even though the flickering candlelight caused shadows to move across his features. He did not comment on the bottles before he cleared away the parchment on his desk and moved his gaze to Hermione’s face, meeting her eyes for a few moments.

“You’re not Occluding your feelings anymore.” 

“No, I’m not. I’m still not very good at controlling them,” she confessed, “but I have been getting better.”

“I had not expected someone like you to immediately gain control of your emotions, though your progress on this matter has been...adequate.” Snape frowned. “Enough. How is Mr Potter these days?”

The change of topic took Hermione a second to adjust to. “He’s managing, I think. He’s...very focused on schoolwork lately, actually,” _because he’s got that Prince book,_ she thought sourly, “and he seems less upset about Sirius and being the Chosen One.” _Because he’s been focusing on his obsession with Draco Malfoy,_ she managed not to blurt out. 

Snape’s upper lip curled at her mention of Sirius, but he made no comment.

“And how is he dealing with being the _Chosen One?”_

“Well, obviously he’s feeling the pressure because of the prophecy—”

“The contents of the prophecy are secret. You should not speak freely of it with anyone,” Snape snapped, and looked at her sharply.

“But I trust you,” Hermione said.

“Why? None of your peers do. Have you considered they may have good reasons?” Snape’s face had entirely blanked at this point.

Hermione blinked. “I trust you because you’re a good person.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do you _know_ this? Are you truly this naive? Perhaps I have misjudged you and this was a bad idea after all.”

Hermione made an impatient sound. “You put yourself in the path of a transformed werewolf in front of a child you hated. You have saved the lives of me and my friends many times over the years. You are often mean to people, but that doesn’t make you any less good of a person, it just makes you...unpleasant.”

Snape looked at her, face inscrutable in the dim light of the dungeon.

“I’m...unpleasant. Are you always this frank with your teachers?” he finally asked.

Hermione flushed. “No—sir, that is…”

The corner of Snape’s lips twitched but he did not press the issue further. “Now that we have discussed your misplaced faith, I think we should move on to practising your Occlumency. I want you to try and hold a secret from me.”

Hermione looked into his eyes and relaxed her mind entirely. She buried the memory of what Harry had told her about Merope Gaunt after Dumbledore’s lesson, and thought of her lessons during the day instead. 

Snape shifted through her thoughts with a deft but uncomfortable probe, and the beginnings of her memory of Harry’s conversation began to play in her mind before she slammed down the thought behind a wall of thoughts, and forced herself to shift to a memory of a conversation she had with Harry about his new plans for the Quidditch team for the upcoming year.

Snape withdrew from her mind, lips pursed in distaste. “Your instincts to protect a secret through misdirection are good, though that would not fool an experienced Legilimens. Practice hiding your thoughts this week, as well as practice the Confundus Charm on a target. We will work on your misdirection techniques more later.”

“The Confundus Charm, sir?” Hermione asked, confused for a moment.

“Yes, the Confundus Charm, also known at times as the ‘minor Imperio’. I’m sure you’ve already read the theory?”

“Yes, while the Imperius Curse controls the actions of the victim, the Confundus Charm only controls the thoughts but leaves the actions up to the victim, which is why it’s not an Unforgivable. The Confundus Charm can also usually be resisted by the use of Occlumency,” Hermione recited, unable to help herself.

“Yes. Quite,” Snape remarked dryly. 

“How will I be practising this curse?” Hermione asked, curious.

“The way everyone learns how to do Dark Magic, Miss Granger—by choosing a victim and getting away with it.”

Hermione stared at Snape. 

He looked back at her, unimpressed. “Of course, if you don’t want to continue learning how to deal with an enemy before they have the chance to approach you, by all means—”

“No! I mean, of course, I want to, it’s just...it’s against school rules to curse other students,” Hermione finished lamely.

“Well, if it’s _against the rules_ , then perhaps you shouldn’t do it.”

Hermione felt her cheeks burn. “That’s not—what if I get caught?”

“Then don’t get caught,” said Snape.

* * *

Severus looked without really seeing out his Death Eater mask, with no expression on his face, though no one could see it. The sound of Rosemary Abbott begging for mercy in between screams of pain from the Cruciatus curse echoed loudly in his ears, but all he felt was the cold blankness of Occlumency he used to mask his emotions.

She was a half-blood, which would not normally put a target on her back, but she ran a Muggle-born advocacy group. They had been sent on a mission to send a message, but Severus was not told what the mission was until he found himself at her doorstep.

Severus forced himself not to look away when Avery stepped in and cast the final curse, the flash of green light leaving a stark after image in his sight as Mrs Abbott went still.

Waiting until the others left, he stayed behind to pay his respects. Neither Aurors nor Order members would be by anytime soon. He stood over her still body, then gently shut her unseeing eyes. Turning on his heel, he Apparated.

Safe in Spinner’s End, Severus carefully removed his mask and robes. 

It was ironic; just earlier that day Granger had been telling him that he was a good man. He ignored the part of himself that wanted to believe her. She believed in him because she didn’t know the truth.

Severus Snape had turned his back on goodness when he willingly joined the Death Eaters as a youth, and whatever he did after to atone for his sins would never make up for the fact that he had directly caused the death of the one pure thing he ever had in his life.

It had been so long since he believed he could be good like Lily, since he thought it was possible he could care about other people the way she did, see the best and believe in people the way she did, differentiate between right and wrong the way she did...since he believed there was something in himself worth noticing in the light because somebody else could see it too.

He didn’t know what made a person good anymore. 

Lily had married his childhood bully and died. Whatever belief he had in goodness had died along with her; years at the side of Albus and his belief in the Greater Good had just cemented the slow death of his faith in people. He had all but forgotten what faith felt like, and increasingly he felt as if he didn’t care. It didn’t matter, because he was condemned at the end of this war regardless of which side won, and neither side was innocent though the Death Eaters had started the whole thing and were committing the worst atrocities by far. 

There was as much prejudice against Slytherins as his Slytherins had against Muggle-borns, and not all Slytherins were evil. Severus would know. Even Albus Dumbledore wasn’t an entirely good man—he did everything in the name of the Greater Good, but in his own way he was as ruthless as the Dark Lord. Severus believed while Albus could not have prevented Rosemary Abbott’s death, he could have prevented the deaths of Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance earlier that summer, but purportedly not at the cost of Severus’ role. 

Severus had sworn to himself he would do whatever it took to bring down the Dark Lord, but he didn’t know if the cost was worth it. Every time he weighed the price of one life against the Greater Good he felt his humanity slip away from him a little more. But Albus did as well, as did the Dark Lord.

Severus Snape didn’t believe he was good, because he didn’t believe in goodness anymore. 

* * *

Friday was the last day before Hermione’s next lesson with Snape, and she still had not Confunded anyone, though she had a plan to make Ron leave dinner early if she could not think of anything.

The news that Hannah Abbott’s mother had been found dead the day before had been very distracting and disturbing; it was a sobering reminder her own parents were not safe. She had also been disturbed by the news in the _Daily Prophet_ about Stan Shunpike’s false arrest, as well as the small blurb about a Muggle refugee who had been beaten to death by a mob of “unruly Muggles” in a show of “barbaric violence”. 

Quidditch tryouts were held shortly after breakfast in the cold morning drizzle. Hermione joined Harry and Ron at the tryouts despite the chill, eager to support her friends, but stiffened when she saw Lavender approach and smile at Ron. A sick feeling spread through her stomach when she saw his walk morph into a strut after he noticed Lavender’s attention, but she pushed it out of her mind. That was fine. 

What drew her attention shortly after was something strange happening with the tryouts compared with years past. Giggling fangirls and students from other houses were attempting to join the tryouts, all because of Harry, she was sure—“ _really,_ ” Hermione muttered under her breath—and because of the extra interest, the tryouts took two hours before they moved on to the Keepers.

It was a relief when McLaggen was called up. Trickles of water were starting to fall onto her robes despite the dispelling charm Hermione had performed, and McLaggen had chosen to sit beside her and make rude running commentary on all of the people trying out, including crude commentary on the figures of every female student trying out.

The relief didn’t last long. Each save McLaggen scored twisted Hermione’s guts a little more. When it looked like he was about to save the fifth shot, she tilted her wand and nonverbally cast a Confundus charm his way. Immediately, he swerved and missed.

Stunned by her own actions, Hermione missed the moment when Ron was called up and felt a different sort of anxiety when Lavender loudly wished him luck. She wanted to do the same, but found she could do it after Lavender did. To her relief, he saved all five goals. 

_“You did brilliantly, Ron!”_ she said, grinning madly as she ran down to meet Ron and Harry after the tryouts. The pleased look that Ron shot her warmed her despite the chill, and she forgot all about Lavender.

They visited Hagrid after the tryouts and finally broke the frost that had formed in their relationship after the Trio dropped Care of Magical Creatures from their schedules, narrowly avoiding breaking their teeth on Hagrid’s new recipe for black currant scones.

The rain had let up by this point, though the grass was still wet. On their way back to the castle for dinner, they saw Cormac make two attempts to walk in through the front doors after walking into the doors on his first try. Hermione tried to walk past Cormac without drawing attention to him, but Harry chose that moment to suddenly use his powers of observation and make a leap of deduction that she had been the one to hex him. At least Harry didn’t seem upset—if anything, he found the whole situation quite funny. It was heartening when Harry pretended they had been talking about nothing at all when Ron asked them what they had been discussing. 

She wondered what Snape would say if he knew she had been caught.

* * *

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. The girl had overpowered her Confundus and _Potter_ of all people had caught onto the fact that she had cursed McLaggen.

“Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for getting caught and for overpowering your Confundus,” he said.

“But it was just Harry, sir—”

“Do not make me take ten points,” Severus said wearily. He resisted the urge to rub his temples. 

The death of Rosemary Abbott still weighed heavily on his mind, and he didn’t have the energy to snap at the Granger girl.

They went back to brewing—Calming Draught this time—until the girl spoke up.

“I’ve been thinking about what I need to do to move my parents, and I think I have a plan…”

“Oh?” Oh, good. Perhaps someone could be saved for once.

Granger looked up at him from under her lashes. “But I’m not sure exactly how to make them think they’re completely different people without causing permanent brain damage. And I’ll need to fake their documents and make sure they work when used in the Muggle world.”

Severus resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose again. “Do you have any ideas on how to deal with these very minor problems?”

She fidgeted in her seat. “Well, obviously the solution for the memory issue is not to wipe their memories and replace them with completely new ones—just alter them somehow. Repress only the memories related to me and give them just enough new ones to suggest that they’re different people. And I was hoping you would know a wizard who makes fake Muggle identification papers that would work…”

“Indeed...though _why_ would I know wizards who fake Muggle identification papers?” he asked.

“Well...maybe in your line of work…” Hermione faltered.

“I’m quite impressed with how glamorous you think the life of a school teacher is,” Severus said blandly.

“Oh! You know what I mean. It’s fine—I’ll find a Muggle way to do it if you don’t know anyone…” 

It was too easy baiting the Granger girl.

“Calm yourself. I do happen to know of a wizard who offers certain...services. But it will cost you, and you’ll want to wipe his memory of the specific identities he provided. How do you feel about practising the Obliviate spell?”

Hermione smiled weakly. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous? I don’t want to send anybody to St. Mungo’s.”

Severus sighed. At least teaching the girl was a diversion from his problems.

“For this, we will start with animals.”

* * *

Hermione and Luna had never been very close, even during their time in Dumbledore’s Army, but since the new school year Luna had taken to seeking out her company more. Perhaps it was their experience in the Department of Mysteries, or perhaps it was the level of mental calm that Hermione had reached compared with before, due to all of her calming exercises for Occlumency.

They spent a lot of time sitting together reading books in a comfortable corner of the library, sometimes with the books upside-down or sideways in the case of Luna. She had been confused but grateful at first when Luna started approaching her, especially when Luna seemed to intuitively know what she needed to deal with her emotions—truthfully, she was still confused—but it was pleasant to be around Luna and she didn’t have many female friends, so she accepted the situation gladly.

“You seem to be better now,” Luna said one day while Hermione was trying to figure out how to selectively use a memory-repression spell. 

“Ah, yes?” Hermione knew Luna was perceptive, but she did not want to get into why she had been an emotional wreck so shortly after the start of the school year.

“You have the right amount of Wrackspurts again,” Luna explained matter-of-factly.

“Right.” Hermione had given up on contradicting Luna when she talked about her imaginary creatures. It felt wrong to do so now they were friends.

“Sometimes when people feel strongly, they gather a lot of Wrackspurts around themselves,” Luna said. “You didn’t have enough before. And then too much. But now the number is right.”

“Right—er, why do you say I’m gathering Wrackspurts?” Hermione asked Luna, trying to humour her.

“Because you like Ronald Weasley of course,” Luna said.

Hermione’s cheeks turned pink. “What?” she squeaked. 

“I think he likes you back. You should ask him out,” Luna continued and paused thoughtfully. “I’ve never had a boy like me like that before. I don’t know what I’d do if someone did.”

“How do you know a boy has never liked you?” Hermione asked, indignant on Luna’s behalf, and too embarrassed and pleased on her own behalf to comment on Luna’s earlier statement. 

Luna looked away from Hermione and started humming under her breath. That signalled the end of the conversation.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Hermione practised Obliviating all manner of small animals. She didn’t ask where Snape had found them, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. 

What they practiced were small Obliviations on the animals that Snape checked with Legilimency, and while Hermione had her misgivings about practicing on animals, Snape asked if she wanted to learn to Obliviate on any living beings without his guidance during a conflict situation, which stopped her from further protests. 

It chilled her to wipe memories like this, but Snape also taught her ways to heal the mind of damage Obliviation and other mind magic work could result in, which eased her conscience a little. She thought of her parents, and how far she was going to go in altering their memories—what they have of their real life left in remembrance she wondered—and wondered if it was right, the way she was essentially playing god with the minds of people who could not stop her. But she was learning these skills so she could protect herself, and protect others. That had to be enough.

In addition to Obliviation, Snape taught Hermione enough Legilimency so that she would be able to sift through the minds of the animals to find what memories she needed to deal with. It was fascinating, using Legilimency to explore the minds of other living creatures, but Hermione never enjoyed the strange claustrophobic sensation that she got from being trapped within another mind when she did it.

When Snape was certain she had the technique down, he had her practice on the student body. After much discussion, they settled for picking Crabbe and Goyle, reasoning that the boys wouldn’t miss much if they started randomly forgetting information, and Snape checked on the progress of her memory charms by calling them into his office and asking them if they remembered what they were being called in for. 

Snape was starting to look more and more strained as the weeks progressed, and he seemed less patient than he usually was with her, but he had yet to truly blow his lid.

They also set about adapting existing spellwork for repressing memories and planting false memories. It was incredible to Hermione that Professor Snape could just invent new ways of doing magic, and she was learning a lot about spell creation with him, not just merely adapting existing spells as she had done previously.

“Why is it so difficult to make people think they’re someone else?” she had asked one evening after they finished a particularly large batch of Stomach Soothing Solution.

Snape leaned back in his seat, and took on what Hermione thought of as his Lecturing Stance. “It is difficult because life-like memories are impossible to fake; quite frequently memories are the only admissible evidence in the Wizengamot because they cannot be tampered with without leaving behind traces of tampering. So we must very carefully build up a web of memories that suggest an existence in such a way that a person would never examine them too closely.”

“And did you think the wizards who previously wanted to wipe and rewrite a person’s entire identity cared much if their victims were able to function in society after they cursed them?” Snape asked, looking back at his cauldron.

Hermione had nothing to say to that. There was no such thing as a suggestion or a compulsion charm in the wizarding world that did not come with other curse side-effects, and she could not bear the idea of putting her parents under the Imperius, although Snape had commented the Imperius would have been the simpler option. She wanted to leave them with some free will left.

Snape left her to her thoughts as he returned to brewing.

“You do realise when we are finished we must destroy all evidence of what we have done, because this is Dark magic that could be dangerous in the wrong hands?” Snape asked later that evening.

“Yes, sir,” she replied quietly. It unsettled her to think of them as creating new forms of Dark Magic.

Snape sighed. “You should start protecting your secrets from Legilimency at all hours from now on.”

Hermione paused her attempts to manipulate the vial of memories in her hands. “Are there Legilimens who I should worry about knowing my secrets in this castle?”

“Aside from Dumbledore, no. But you never know when you could be ambushed.”

Hermione’s sense of unease worsened, but she did nothing other than nod.

* * *

Hermione was not in a good mood for the first Hogsmeade trip of the school year, which was halfway through October. Crookshanks had been missing for the past two days, and while she had no idea what she had done she had the distinct feeling her familiar was upset at her for something.

The day started inauspiciously—Harry tried an unknown spell on Ron from the Prince textbook that caused people to dangle upside-down in the air, and they didn’t even seem to care that Death Eaters had used this very same spell during the attacks on Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup a few years back. It alarmed her that Harry thought there wasn’t anything wrong with trying unknown spells from an unknown author, but he had brushed her off.

She had a feeling the Prince wasn’t a pleasant person from some of the spells in the book, and was possibly even a Death Eater, but Harry had insisted a person proud to be a half-blood couldn’t be a Death Eater even though logic dictated that there just weren’t enough Pure-bloods left to make up all the rest of the Death Eaters. But Harry was being illogical about the whole thing and was becoming increasingly attached to his book. There was no convincing him.

The day did not get any better as they headed into Hogsmeade. They noticed that Zonko’s had been boarded up soon after entering the village, and the day did not improve when Slughorn found them in Honeydukes and injured Ron’s ego by ignoring him while attempting to get Harry to attend a Slug Club dinner again.

It was starting to feel like the day couldn’t get any worse when Harry started choking Mundungus Fletcher at The Three Broomsticks for stealing Black family silverware, but of course, that was proven wrong when Katie Bell was cursed.

* * *

Severus sweated as he finished casting to contain the Dark Magic coursing through Katie Bell, who was whimpering while huddled under the white bedsheets of the Hospital Wing. She had been an average Potions student, a slightly-above-average Defence student, and was not as annoying as most Gryffindors. 

The Healers from St Mungo’s would arrive soon. Bell’s condition had stabilised, even if she had not been entirely freed from the curse. He had done what he could. 

Severus mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he took a step back from the hospital bed. How many students had he healed from Dark curses over the years? It was times like these that made him feel as if they were running a field hospital instead of a school. 

Dumbledore had insisted that Draco would approach them first—because he had faith Draco Malfoy was not a murderer. Severus did not think Draco was a murderer either; he had known the boy since he had been named, and while he was a bit of a spoiled brat, he was not the sort of person who could commit cold-blooded murder. But Severus knew the boy had a ridiculous amount of pride, and would never approach him for help if he could help it. They could not force Draco to receive help that he did not want, especially if the boy was to turn, but it was evident they needed to act soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks for being patient—I managed to re-injure my wrists/arms so I missed last week’s update. Updates will take longer until I am fully healed, though I will try to make every two weeks at least. I will post updates on my tumblr [@viridiantly](https://viridiantly.tumblr.com/) if I can't make a planned update.
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments, I really appreciate every one of them! It always makes me really happy seeing what parts of the fic resonate for different people and seeing the story with fresh eyes. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. Lavender

Harry was regaling Hermione and Ron with the details of his last lesson with Dumbledore on their way to Herbology a few days after Katie’s accident. 

Hermione found it difficult to concentrate on what Harry was saying, her mind so preoccupied with the issue of Katie Bell’s cursing that she nearly missed out on what Harry was telling them about Dumbledore and Voldemort. Sleep had been difficult after Katie had been cursed and her dreams about the Department of Mysteries starting up again. But this time instead of being chased by Death Eaters who she could never outrun, she saw scenes of her friends being cursed by Death Eaters, with the addition of Katie Bell’s floating body in the mix.

Hermione shook her head, and tried harder to focus on what Harry was saying about Voldemort. The way Harry talked about how Dumbledore spoke of Voldemort made her uneasy. She frowned the entire way to Herbology, unable to shake the tension in her shoulders.

Of course Voldemort had always wanted to be special. And it was interesting that Dumbledore had focused on his tendency to collect magical objects. Just what was so special about these objects? What kind of powers did they grant the Dark Lord, and just what was it that Harry would have to do to obtain ‘the power the Dark Lord knows not’? It was all very cryptic and frustrating. Hermione appreciated having a thorough understanding of the background for any explanation, but Dumbledore should have at least told Harry what he was trying to explain in the first place.

She also disagreed with Harry and Dumbledore on the point of not feeling sorry for Voldemort, and told Harry as much. She couldn’t articulate why, but the idea of making monsters out of men seemed too simple somehow—it felt as if they were missing something, reducing young Tom Riddle to a mere psychopath. All talk of Voldemort stopped when they reached the Greenhouses.

Tightly gripping the Snargaluff pods that they were using for their Herbology lesson, Hermione casually brought up that Slughorn was having a Christmas party, and that he wanted Harry to attend. She was building up to inviting Ron on a date when things went pear shaped.

Ron was attempting to burst the Snargaluff pod when he angrily said, _“And this is another party just for Slughorn’s favourites, is it?”_

_“Just for the Slug Club, yes,”_ Hermione said, heart sinking. This was not how she wanted the conversation to go.

The pod flew out from under Ron’s fingers and Harry went to retrieve it while Hermione tried to explain that the name “Slug Club” was made up by Slughorn himself.

“‘ _Slug Club’”, repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of Malfoy. “It’s pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don’t you try getting off with McLaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug_ —”

_“We’re allowed to bring guests,”_ Hermione said, suddenly hurt and furious by his words, _“and I was **going** to ask you to come, but if you think it’s that stupid then I won’t bother!”_

_“You were going to ask me?” asked Ron, in a completely different voice._

_“Yes,” said Hermione angrily. “But obviously if you’d rather I **got off with McLaggen** …”_

There was a pause.

_“No, I wouldn’t,” said Ron, in a very quiet voice._ Hermione felt her anger ebb away as she took in Ron’s nervous expression.

Harry hit the bowl where he was pounding the pod with a trowel so hard that it shattered. Hermione startled, realising his presence. She stared at Harry’s hand, which was bleeding profusely from a shard of the shattered bowl. She quickly cast an _Episkey_ at him and his wound closed, though it left a faint scar and there was still blood around the closed wound.

“You should go see Madam Pomfrey,” she said to Harry, and then began to studiously look through her copy of the Herbology text. 

“Er, right,” said Harry. From the corner of her eye she saw him look between her and Ron, and then gather his things and make his excuses to Professor Sprout before he left the greenhouse. She hoped that Harry wouldn’t mind or feel left out, but she knew that he would be happy for her if things turned out well, which looked more and more likely to happen.

That week, Hermione was bursting to tell someone that Ron had agreed to go to the Christmas party with her, though she was terrified of people finding out and spreading rumours that could ruin things if she did, so she said nothing to her dorm mates. Lavender liked Ron and she didn’t want things to become awkward in the dorm room.

Luna seemed to know anyway. “I’m glad that you’re happy,” she had said apropos of nothing one day in the library, and went back to reading her copy of the Quibbler.

Hermione wondered what made Luna happy. 

* * *

“Have you thought of how to support your parents while they are away?” asked Professor Snape as he examined Hermione’s latest batch of Essence of Dittany. He did not comment on the potion and put the bottles away in a box for Madam Pomfrey.

“I thought maybe I could hire a solicitor who could funnel their current retirement funds to them in Australia...”

“That plan sounds like it relies on a continuous application of the Confundus or Imperius on too many people. It has too many moving pieces,” Snape said, striding back to his desk.

Hermione stared down at her hands in her lap. “I did have another idea…” she began hesitantly. “But it’s a bit extreme. And might involve some Dark Magic.”

“Yes?” Snape asked impatiently, dipping his quill in red ink to begin his marking.

“I was thinking I could fake their deaths, inherit everything, and give it to them when they arrive in Australia. But I would need fake bodies…”

Snape let out a dark laugh. “You’ll find it’s surprisingly easy faking dead bodies. The magic involved isn’t even very Dark.”

“Do you fake many dead bodies, sir?” Hermione asked, unable to help herself.

Snape tensed.

“That is not for you to know,” he said, voice clipped. “But it can easily be arranged. Now, you are in a battle with Death Eaters who have more experience and determination to kill than you do. How do you get away?”

Hermione grimaced at the subject change but shifted focus to Snape’s question.

“I would...create a diversion,” she said.

Snape nodded. “Good. Diversions are very important in battles, especially chaotic ones. The more confused your enemy is, the more likely it is that they are to catch friendly fire, so long as you and your allies are far away from the enemy. Have you thought of what kind of diversion you could create? _”_

Hermione thought for a moment. “The easiest way would be to move objects between us to block their spells and create an escape route, but I suppose I could conjure something if that isn’t possible…”

“What would you conjure?”

“A wall?”

Snape frowned. “Too easily blasted through, and too magically taxing. Your homework for the next week is to think of multiple ways to block hexes while not using walls or a Shield Charm in the face of an enemy with overwhelming firepower, and to think of ways to escape battle when you cannot land a curse on your enemies.”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else?” she asked, thinking longingly of her latest Arithmancy problem set.

“No. You may go.”

“Goodnight, sir.” 

Snape grunted in response and turned back to his marking. He never wished her goodnight back, but this was the first time he acknowledged her farewell in any way.

* * *

Darkness clung to the dining room of the Malfoy Manor, seemingly emanating directly from the Dark Lord in a way that Severus had never seen in the Malfoy residence before. Strange, how he had never noticed the warmth in the Manor until it was gone.

A long line of Death Eaters sat at the table dressed in varying textures of black, with Severus amongst them. He wondered when they had become such caricatures of evil, and if he could get his Death Eater membership revoked by wearing blue. 

Yaxley was going down a list of people he said he had influence over and was reaching the conclusion of his report. Severus had given his own report on Dumbledore’s actions earlier, and had told Voldemort that the headmaster was taking trips away from the school to parlay with vampires and giants. Truthfully, he did not know what Dumbledore did on his trips away, and almost hoped that he was seeking more support in their fight against the Death Eaters. Whatever it was that Dumbledore was doing, he was close-lipped about it, and had told Severus to tell Voldemort anything he wished about his actions.

“The Ministry should fall within the year, and then we can push forward the plans for Mudbloods soon after, my Lord,” Yaxley said in conclusion of his report. He did not look smug—Yaxley had too much class and experience with Death Eater envy to gloat, but Severus could detect a deep sense of satisfaction in the man.

“Do you believe you have enough support to push forward with the plans?” Voldemort hissed softly.

“Yes. Our support is there—many at the Ministry are growing afraid of Muggles and seeing them for the filth that they are, and becoming displeased with the Mudblood presence. The news in the _Prophet_ is helping them reinforce these views. Within months of the Ministry toppling, they will be suggesting similar measures to our plans themselves. I guarantee it,” Yaxley replied smoothly.

Severus willed his heart to slow as he heard the words. Suddenly, the chill in the Manor seemed to be more than an affection of the Dark Lord and more of an ill omen. He knew what plans they were speaking of—the alienation and control of all Muggle-borns, with nebulous plans for the subjugation of the Muggles after they seized power. It was hard to believe that people at the Ministry would support such measures so soon, but Yaxley was not one to boast. There had to be Dark magic at play.

“Good. I expect you to succeed,” Voldemort said with a ghastly smile on his noseless face.

* * *

Severus could almost feel his skin crawl with agitation, though he stood stock still in the Order meeting.

Apparently, efforts with the werewolves weren’t entirely wasted; there were some in the packs who opposed the Dark Lord because of the actions of Greyback, but none high enough in the hierarchy to give them the numbers they truly needed. Considering most of the werewolves in these packs had turned their backs on wizarding ways, Severus did not think they would be useful in a fight, either as wandless wizards or as mindless killing machines only vicious enough to be brutal once a lunar cycle.

No one was addressing the imminent fall of the Ministry, and Dumbledore had ordered his silence on the subject as there was no possible way for that information to have been gleaned from anything aside from spying. Dumbledore had all but dismissed Severus’ concerns about the Ministry, saying that it was a case of Yaxley boasting about his influence and that people in the Ministry could not change that easily—they had to focus on the plan to take down Voldemort.

Dumbledore had also ordered Severus to give less effective information at Order meetings to prepare him for his upcoming role, and Severus reluctantly obeyed because he knew that only with the absolute trust of the Dark Lord would he be able to ask for the concessions that he needed.

If only he had the time to teach lying and Occlumency to all Order members.

The meeting concluded with a short champagne toast, as it was Halloween—the fifteenth anniversary of the fall of the Dark Lord. 

Severus was lurking in a dark corner, idly listening in on conversations around him by habit when he was interrupted.

“Severus.” It was Kingsley.

“Kingsley.” Severus nodded.

“I have not been recruiting for the Order of the Phoenix,” Kingsley remarked, large hands delicately holding a flute of champagne. The pale golden liquid sparkled slightly in the candlelight. He did not look around him as they spoke, but Severus was paying attention to the people around them, and no one was listening.

“Then you shouldn’t worry about the Hall of Record-Keeping, where things such as paramilitary affiliations are noted,” Severus remarked. It was almost going against Dumbledore’s orders, as he had heard an associate of Yaxley mention the need to access a person in that office as soon as possible as the Hall kept records of blood status, but if the Order got there first...well, that could be blamed on faulty record-keeping by the Ministry. Nobody needed to know. 

Kingsley raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“To the first fall of Lord Voldemort,” Kingsley said, raising his champagne glass. “And to the next. May there not need to be another.”

Severus inclined his head and raised his own glass without a toast. He didn’t think they had anything worth celebrating for the first fall of the Dark Lord, not at the cost it had taken, but he wouldn’t begrudge a toast to a second.

* * *

Close to the first Quidditch match of the season, Ron became extremely cold towards Hermione. They had been more cautious around each other after she had asked him to Slughorn’s Christmas party, arguing less, and she had revelled in how he seemed more attentive than usual, but then one day he changed. His answers to her questions became short, and he ignored her when she attempted to start conversations. She had no idea what she had done wrong, and when she asked Harry, he had looked at her guiltily and said it wasn’t anything that she had done, at least not in recent years.

It was bewildering and upsetting. The only thing preventing her from crying in lavatories between classes was the large amount of head-clearing exercises she was doing in the evenings, and Luna’s constant support.

Hermione nearly decided to skip watching the Quidditch match. She didn’t know if she could handle cheering for Ron when he was full of nothing but tight-lipped fury and snide remarks, but then she thought of Harry and Ginny and knew it wouldn’t be fair to take support away from them just because she was having problems with Ron again.

_“How are you both feeling?”_ Hermione asked tentatively as she joined the breakfast table.

_“Fine,” said Harry, who was concentrating on handing Ron a glass of pumpkin juice. “There you go, Ron. Drink up.”_

Hermione stared at Harry in disbelief.

_“Don’t drink that, Ron!”_

The boys looked at her.

_“Why not?” said Ron._

_“You just put something in that drink,”_ she accused Harry.

Harry played dumb, but Hermione had seen him tip the bottle of Felix Felicis into Ron’s juice. Ron ignored her and downed the entire glass. _“Stop bossing me around, Hermione,”_ he said. 

Blood rushed in her ears at the comment—she had been trying to save him from possibly being expelled, and always had his best intentions at heart but _he just didn’t understand._

Taking calming breaths in the girl’s lavatory was fast becoming a habit, she thought, as she tried to decide whether she wanted to go to the Quidditch game or not. With a sigh, Hermione wrapped her Gryffindor scarf around her and headed to the pitch. If she showed up to the game, Ron might not be pleased to see her, but if she didn’t show he would never forgive her.

The effects of Felix Felicis were unbelievable. The weather was perfect, and two of Slytherin’s regular players could not make it to the game. Ron made several incredible saves, and it seemed like the Gryffindor team could do no wrong. _Did the effects of Felix Felicis extend to the entire team?_ Hermione wondered. It was almost interesting in an academic way, that magic could affect something so abstract as luck, but it was blatant cheating, and with every goal Ron saved she felt her anger at Ron and Harry rise a little. She wanted Gryffindor to win, but not by cheating. 

A spectacular save ended the game when Harry seemingly snatched the Snitch right out of the Slytherin Seeker’s hand.

She confronted Harry and Ron after the game, reminding Harry that using Felix Felicis in sporting events was illegal, and was shocked when Harry revealed that he only made them believe that he had spiked Ron’s juice. _Placebo effect,_ she thought dumbly, as Ron threw her words back in her face.

_“ **You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this morning, that’s why he saved everything!** See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!”_

_“I never said you couldn’t—Ron, **you** thought you’d been given it, too!”_

But Ron had stormed out of the changing room, and Hermione finally let out the trickle of tears that she had been keeping at bay throughout the entire exchange.

Her tears had barely dried on her face when she returned to the common room, and she blinked stupidly at the sight in front of her.

Ron was kissing Lavender.

Their arms were intertwined, hands all over each other.

A sore lump grew in her throat and the world blurred as she ran away from the common room. She barrelled blindly down the corridor until she found an empty classroom, and crumpled on top of the desk in a daze.

Ron had agreed to go to the Christmas party with her. Why was he kissing Lavender? 

Hermione had been certain that he liked her back, and that they were together. It felt as if some agreement between them had been violated, and she didn’t know why. She knew she wasn’t as friendly or pretty as Lavender, but she was sure that Ron had liked her.

A tiny voice in her head that sounded oddly like Snape asked her if she was underestimating herself, but it was gone as fast as it appeared.

As self-doubt began to darken her mood, Hermione thought of her Occlumency text, which recommended distracting the mind when dealing with overwhelming emotions. The canaries she had conjured in Transfiguration class earlier that week had pleased her at the time, so she conjured a flock. Sending them flying in different directions or having them chase one another was a nice way to get her mind off things.

A heavy scratchy sound echoed through the empty classroom and then Harry stepped through the door.

_“Oh, hello, Harry,” she said in a brittle voice. “I was just practising.”_

_“Yeah...they’re—er—really good…” said Harry._

Hermione couldn’t help herself when her mouth decided to talk about the last thing she wanted to talk about.

_“Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations,”_ she said, and winced at how high-pitched her voice sounded.

_“Er...does he?” said Harry._

_The door behind them burst open. Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand._

He had the audacity to talk as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. “Hi, Harry! Wondered where you’d got to!”

Hermione slid off the desk, keeping her conjured flock of canaries slowly rotating around her head. They gave her a sense of peace, despite the thoughts of how hurtful Ron had acted towards her, seemingly without reason.

_“You shouldn’t leave Lavender waiting outside,” she said quietly. “She’ll wonder where you’ve gone.”_

Hermione walked carefully to the door, movements stiff and deliberate. Her mind was blank and roiling with emotions at the same time. A half-remembered line about conjuring distractions in battle came to her from her Occlumency lessons. 

_“Oppugno!”_ Hermione pointed her wand at Ron. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t right _—_ watching the little yellow birds peck and claw at his skin was deeply satisfying. She wanted him to hurt.

_“Gerremoffme!”_ Ron yelled.

The canaries did turn out to be an effective offensive diversion, she thought distantly as she wrenched the door open and left the classroom.

* * *

Over the next few days, Hermione found that she had gained a sense of bitter calmness about the whole situation. It helped that both Harry and Luna had been there for her when Ron began making mocking imitations of her in class, waving his arms up and down and faking a girlish simper in his seat when the professors had their backs turned. 

When she learned that the whole thing started because Ginny had let slip that she had snogged Krum in fourth year Hermione just became more incensed about the ordeal.

It was times like these that she really appreciated Harry, as he seemed determined to be there for her, even though she was making his life difficult by not speaking to Ron; he even went as far as to sit with her at the library when she refused to be in the same room as Ron and Lavender, though the library was not his favourite place. Luna would join her during the daytime when they had the same free periods, and even Neville was friendlier than usual.

Unfortunately, avoiding her dormitory as much as possible was a necessity, as not to see more of Lavender than she had to. Things were decidedly awkward between them. Lavender was not the least bit apologetic, which helped Hermione feel completely justified in speaking as little to her as possible.

It was nice to have her other friends pay closer attention to her though. 

She wondered during those days what Snape would teach her next. What could possibly come after the Confundus charm and Obliviation?

* * *

Severus was trying to calm himself from the afternoon’s fresh disaster, but calm was difficult when he had spent most of the previous evening wandering the halls of the castle instead of sleeping. Some fifth-year student had managed to summon a shield of slime instead of the regular Shield Charm, which had shattered and coated the entire class in the noxious substance. His head was pounding, and he still had marking and Granger training left to do in the day.

There came a soft knock at his door.

“Professor Snape?” It was the Granger girl. She looked around the lab in confusion, noting that there was no Potions brewing setup.

“Miss Granger,” Severus began. “Sit.”

She complied immediately. She looked as if she had something to say, but Severus was not in the mood to entertain her usual questions.

He thought back to his plan for the evening, but his latest conversation with Dumbledore had left him agitated. Dumbledore had yet again dismissed his concerns regarding the Ministry, saying that the Order was not created to run the wizarding world.

“Did you know that the Death Eaters are making great progress in taking over the Ministry?” he asked conversationally, pausing in his marking, mind still on his last conversation.

“Sir?” Granger asked. “No, though it isn’t terribly surprising.”

“Have you thought about what would happen to Muggle-borns such as yourself when they do take over?” he asked. 

Her lips parted. “I _—_ that is, no, surely someone in the Order would have mentioned it if things are so dire?” 

Severus twisted his lips. “Dumbledore does not want it known that he is now almost entirely focused on the final confrontation between Potter and the Dark Lord. The Order does not know. We do not have the numbers or resources to fight the Death Eaters on a larger front, and the simple fact is that right now the Death Eaters are winning. The Order is doing little more than being a smokescreen for Dumbledore’s true actions.”

“You mean Dumbledore is keeping this fact _secret?”_ Her voice rose to a slightly shrill pitch.

“ _We_ must keep this fact a secret,” Severus corrected. “There is little we can do without tipping our hand, and even then, a mass evacuation of Muggle-borns will only cause the Death Eaters to strike immediately, which would be to our disadvantage. We simply do not have the resources to rescue everyone.”

She looked sick. 

“You need to be prepared to go into hiding, within the next ten months.”

“Oh, of course, sir. No problem,” Granger said faintly. “But...what about my NEWTs?”

Severus’ nostrils flared. “I am warning you of the probable fall of the wizarding world and you are worried about _exams?”_

A stubborn glare flickered across the girl’s face briefly before her expression morphed into something resembling shame. “You’re right, sir. This is more important than exams. What will I need to prepare?”

“Practice what I have taught you as well as Apparition. Be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, and to take Potter with you.”

She looked alarmed. “Couldn’t we just have the Order look after us?” she asked. 

Severus took a moment to pity the girl. If he had been charged with the task of babysitting the Potter brat he would be looking for an out too.

“If I thought the Order capable of keeping Potter safe from himself, then why would I be wasting my time with you?” Severus asked. He scowled at the slightly pleased look on her face. It was obvious that she had looked past his insult and decided that he had said something complimentary. She was getting used to him; it was...discomfiting.

“Enough. Today we start with the Imperius curse.”

Her pleased expression immediately faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you all for the wonderful comments last week - I am really happy that people like the way Hermione and Snape are interacting in this story, and look forward to hearing what you think of this week’s chapter. Also everything Ron did in this chapter was based on what actually happened in canon, no bashing here, just straight up giving canon the good ol’ side-eye.


	8. The Other Meaning of Mistletoe

_“Enough. Today we start with the Imperius curse.”_

Hermione’s stomach did a flip. “Sir?” she asked, bewildered by the sudden shift in topic from preparing to go on the run from the Ministry to learning to cast Unforgivables. She had just begun to think of the preparations she would need to do over the holidays before Snape’s segue, and how to raise the question that had been on her mind.

“What?” Snape asked impatiently.

Hermione fiddled with the edge of her sweater. “Isn’t the Imperius Curse kind of...an Unforgivable?” 

“How astute of you to notice,” Snape said, voice lacking his usual bite. “What else can you tell me about it?”

Hermione peered closer at her professor, and noticed that his hair was lanker and greasier than usual, and the circles under his eyes seemed darker than they had been before. “It requires a lot of magical power and you have to be very intent on bending someone else’s will to yours…”

“Reading up on the Dark Arts in your spare time, are you?”

“That’s not—” Hermione spluttered. “It was assigned reading for class!”

“So it was,” Snape said. He closed his eyes for a moment as his jaw clenched, before his face relaxed itself again.

“Sir...are you alright?” Hermione asked.

“That is none of your concern.” The muscles of his jaws tightened again, making the already angular planes of his face stand out even more. “It seems you have a solid understanding of the theory behind the curse. I will not be teaching you how to cast Unforgivables, as exciting as that would be, and I do not want you practicing them either. I want you, however, to have a very extensive understanding of how the curse works and how to dispel it, and be prepared to use it in a worst-case scenario. Even a poorly cast Imperio can be effective if powered properly.”

Hermione sagged in relief. Despite everything they’d done, she didn’t think she was up for casting Unforgivables anytime soon, not even in the name of the greater good. 

“Do you know how to fight off the Imperius curse?”

“No,” she said. “I never managed it in Moody’s class.”

“Do you know why Potter managed it when you couldn’t?” he asked, phrasing his question in such a way that it was not an insult for once.

“Because he’s magically stronger than I am?” she asked, unsure.

“Wrong. He fights off the Imperius curse because he is so very convinced of his own ideas that he would never let his will be bent to that of others. His conviction, or rather, his thick skull, is what protects him where others fail.” Snape sneered.

“So...I should...have more conviction?” Hermione asked, brows furrowed.

“You do not have the same kind of self-belief that Potter does, so you cannot fight off the Imperius with mere conviction alone. But you can protect yourself with Occlumency—find a place deep within yourself, and bury your most treasured secrets, so that if someone puts you under the Imperius a part of your mind will remain protected and desperate to fight for what is yours when you are ordered to go against your will,” he said.

Hermione’s lips parted in surprise. Her mind briefly wondered what sorts of things Snape would bury as his most treasured secrets before she resolutely turned away from that topic.

Snape cleared his throat. “You will find the relevant sections in your Occlumency text. I will not be casting the Imperius curse on you,” he said. “I do not think you will need it, though we can practice your mental defence skills with the Confundus once you have done the required reading and exercises.”

“All right,” she whispered, disappointed and relieved at the same time. 

“That’s all for today. Do you have any questions?”

Hermione gathered her nerves. “I would like to learn healing and counter curses,” she said, and waited for a response.

“Have you not been studying the texts?” Snape asked.

“I have—but I think I would really benefit from hands-on study, especially if we’re going to be on the run and if it might not be safe to go to a hospital. I need to know how to do things right the first time fast if someone ever gets hurt in combat,” she said, hands clutching her uniform.

Professor Snape looked at her with a pained expression on his face but didn’t say anything for a moment. “I have no time to teach you such things. But I will see what I can do,” he said. “Is there _anything else_?”

“N-no sir,” she stammered. She had wanted to ask more about how to prepare for the upcoming year on the run, but realised that Snape was reaching his limit for the day. She could find out everything else she needed to know through research and list making. “Thank you. Goodnight, Professor Snape.”

Snape said nothing to her evening farewell as usual, but Hermione could’ve sworn she heard a faint “goodnight” right before the heavy wooden door to the classroom closed.

* * *

“Severus, how good to see you,” Dumbledore rasped.

“Albus,” Severus greeted, and sat down on the gaudy jewel-coloured loveseat Dumbledore indicated for him to sit on. They were in the Headmaster’s study—a room off the side of the office without portraits, lined to the ceiling with books, furnished with a garish purple and teal sofa and loveseat set. 

Severus cleared his mind and found himself hiding memories from the Headmaster for the first time since he had started working for him. He hid his memories of his time spent with Granger deep within his mind, hidden behind layers of memories of sleepless nights and mind-numbing marking. He took care especially to conceal the conflicted feelings he had that came about from Granger’s conversations.

“Tea?” Dumbledore indicated the jade green tea set before them with his withered hand, seemingly entirely unaware of Severus’ inner struggles.

Severus nodded, then poured them both cups of black tea. He downed his in a few gulps and poured himself another. Tea did nothing for him at this point, but everything was worse without caffeine and Dumbledore never served coffee. 

After he finished drinking, he gestured for Dumbledore to give him his hand. The Headmaster stretched his cursed hand, a faint tremor visible in his fingers. Severus studied the blackened flesh, noting that Dumbledore’s fingers looked skinnier and more claw-like compared with the last time he had seen them, and the greying of his flesh went further up Dumbledore’s arm.

“How long, Severus?” Dumbledore asked.

Severus resisted the urge to grip his hand tighter. “Not long now. Perhaps six months, eight if we’re lucky,” he said. 

“Good, good,” Dumbledore said. Severus felt the tension in his shoulders increase.

“ _Good?_ ” he asked.

“Everything is going according to schedule,” Dumbledore said.

“And what is this schedule?” Severus asked, fully expecting a non-answer.

“All in due time my boy, all in due time,” Dumbledore said, inscrutable as ever.

“And how are Potter’s lessons going?” Severus asked again, resigning himself to another non-answer.

“Very well, but you know not to ask about those.” Dumbledore shot Severus a pointed look.

Severus inclined his and poured himself another cup of tea.

“What are your holiday plans this year?” Dumbledore asked, as if Severus ever had any.

“The same thing I do every year, I imagine,” Severus said dryly. “Return to my coffin and hibernate until everyone stops being so bloody cheerful.”

“ _Severus_ ,” Dumbledore said reproachfully.

“ _Albus_ ,” Severus mocked. Then he straightened up. “In all likelihood I will be visiting the Malfoys for their annual Christmas celebration, as you well know.” He did not mention his plans to hide away Hermione Granger’s parents.

Dumbledore shot him a penetrating look. “Take care to keep track of what Lord Voldemort is doing, especially how he treats his snake.” 

“His snake?” Severus was taken aback.

“Yes, his snake,” Dumbledore said, and left it at that.

* * *

Hermione looked at herself critically in the mirror. Blonde did not suit her, no surprise given her winter pallor, but she felt like she had done a convincing job of Transfiguring her normally dark brown hair into a light shade of blonde. McGonagall had taught them how to Transfigure their eyebrows to different colours in class the previous week; Hermione thought the magic had potential as a disguise. It wouldn’t hold to close scrutiny, as she looked the same as she ever did, but it was a good foray into Human Transfiguration.

Her hands shook as she pointed her wand at herself—it always made her nervous to cast at herself—and spelled her nose larger. The effect was not...horrible. She definitely looked different. She was still somewhat recognizable if she squinted, though, and that wouldn’t do. Taking a deep breath, Hermione focused on holding her hand steady through the wand movements and changed the shape of her cheeks. There. Now she looked markedly different.

Emerging slowly from the girl’s bathroom, Hermione headed to the library to study and see if anybody would recognise her or question her.

She had just seated herself when Luna approached her.

“Hermione! There you are!” Luna exclaimed, flopping down into a cushy armchair. Luna peered quizzically at her face.

“Look! Our hair colour matches today!” she exclaimed. “Should I change my hair too some other time? I haven’t learned yet, but I’m sure you can teach me.”

Hermione sighed. She hadn’t expected to be found out so soon.

“What a pleasant surprise! I’m...practicing for Transfiguration class,” she half-fibbed. It could count as practice for the Transfiguration NEWT she might not take. “How did you know it was me?” 

“You’ve got a very definite pattern to the Wrackspurts that fly around you,” Luna stated matter-of-factly. “And the way you sit. You always tilt your body in a certain way and fold your arms just so.”

“I see,” Hermione said helplessly, then cast a _Finite_ at herself. The tight and tingly sensation of Transfiguration on her skin stopped immediately, and the small headache she had been developing vanished.

“Much better,” Luna said. “I don’t think that shade of blonde was your colour. You should try black next.”

Hermione coughed at the mental image, a little disturbed to imagine herself with the larger nose and black hair, then pulled her textbooks out. They had been reading for some time when Hermione heard someone sit down next to her.

“Oh, hi Harry,” she said, looking up from her book.

“Studying?” he asked, pulling out his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , as well as what looked like the beginnings of a Charms essay Hermione knew was due in four hours. Hermione decided not to comment on it. Harry had to learn to do his own homework at some point, even if she knew she would cave in and help him correct his essay last minute as she always did.

“What’s that?” she asked, a line from the newspaper catching her eye.

“ _The Heartbreaking Life of the Half-Blood”_ read the headline. The accompanying article detailed an anonymous half-blood’s experience with having a Muggle mother who viewed magic as “unnatural”, “evil”, and “trickery”, called them a “freak” during their entire childhood, and abandoned their family after a few years of increasing hostility towards any sort of magic. The article interviewed the heartbroken husband, who said marrying a Muggle had been “a mistake”, and included an odd line that jumped at Hermione’s attention. _“The ministry never sent Obliviators after her.”_

“Rubbish, complete rubbish,” Hermione muttered angrily, slamming the paper down on the table.

“What’s rubbish?” Harry asked. Luna briefly looked up from her copy of the _Quibbler_ but did not otherwise comment.

“This article! It’s—it’s ridiculous what lies they make up about Muggles! Someone at the Daily Prophet has an anti-Muggle agenda and it’s working. Do you know what Ernie Macmillan asked me in Potions the other day?” Hermione whispered furiously, not wanting their conversation overheard.

“What?” Harry asked, a little taken aback.

“He asked if my parents still liked me even though I was a witch! That’s preposterous—”

“Is it, though?” Harry asked quietly.

Hermione swelled with indignation. “How could you even _ask_ that?”

“The Dursleys hate me because I’m a wizard,” Harry said uncomfortably.

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione cooled down immediately. “I’m so sorry—”

“It doesn’t matter, because I know not all Muggles are like that,” Harry added quickly.

“But not everyone else in the wizarding world knows,” said Hermione. Luna shifted in her seat, but still did not comment. 

Hermione looked from the _Daily Prophet_ to Luna, who was sitting quietly behind the _Quibbler._

“Luna…” Hermione started. Luna put aside her paper and tilted her head to the side, indicating that she was listening. “Could I ask you for a favour? I’ve got an idea—” 

“I’ll ask daddy,” said Luna before she could finish.

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it. “I didn’t even finish what I was saying,” she said. 

“You got the same look on your face the last time you wanted to publish an article in _The Quibbler,_ ” Luna said, serene as ever.

“Yes...well...thanks, Luna.” Hermione felt unbalanced by how well Luna knew her, though she was grateful to the other girl.

A small smile reached Luna’s lips. She shrugged her shoulders and took _The Prophet_ from Hermione _,_ and flipped to the very back page, which featured an article about Celestina Warbeck’s latest Christmas album, _Have Yourself a Magical Little Christmas._

Hermione thought of her plans before the holidays, and thought grimly it was going to be a thoroughly magical Christmas for her.

* * *

Severus peered at Granger over his steepled fingers. A faint metallic tang filled the chill air of the dungeons. Three cauldrons of Blood Replenisher bubbled around her, and her potions-making was ever as precise and uninspired as it always was, though he supposed she would have been hard-pressed to improve upon his own modifications.

He waited for her to finish the active steps of brewing before he cleared his throat.

“Miss Granger. I have good news and bad news for you,” he said.

“Yes, sir?” She looked up from the directions in her hands.

“The good news is that false Muggle identities for your parents have been arranged with my acquaintance, and I have done so in a manner that did not reveal the true identity of your parents, so we will not have to Obliviate him.” Severus paused. “I have also taken it upon myself to liaise with another acquaintance to change the age on your Muggle identification and in the relevant government systems so when your parents pass on, you may inherit as an adult with no need for a guardian.”

Granger’s eyes widened comically. “I—thank you, sir—I can’t believe I didn’t think of that—” 

“Don’t thank me. It’ll cost you 1000 galleons for all of this,” Severus said, interrupting her babbling.

“Of course—I’ll pay you back as soon as I can get my inheritance. What’s the bad news?” 

“The bad news is that there has been an order for the Death Eaters to find your family.” Severus paused, as she took this news in. His mind immediately flashed to Hannah Abbott’s drawn face when she had received news of her mother’s death, and how the Hufflepuff had not yet recovered from the news, though it had only been two months.

“However, as it is so close to Christmas, even the Death Eaters will not be out looking for your parents in full force, and their property is protected enough. But you will need to be ready to send them away as soon as possible,” he said, expression guarded. He did not think it was likely her parents would be found within two weeks, as most of the Death Eaters were planning on breaking their fellow brethren out of Azkaban, but nothing was certain during a war.

Granger took a shaky breath and looked as if she was struggling to compose herself. “I can do that. Would you be able to help me over Christmas break?”

“Yes. It would be to my utter delight to break half a dozen wizarding laws with you, Miss Granger,” Severus responded, utterly deadpan. He was surprised to find that he meant it to some extent.

Instead of looking offended at what he had said, Granger only smiled at him in turn. It was unnerving. People did not smile at Severus Snape, unless they were part of the Hogwarts staff (who were arguably not of sound mind) or trying to curry favour with him. Severus ignored the uncomfortable feeling blooming in his chest, and returned to his lesson plan for countering explosive hexes.

* * *

Severus hated parties. He hated them when he had been shunned and ignored at Slughorn’s Slug Club parties back in his school days; he hated them when he was a Death Eater and learning his social graces from the Malfoys, forced to socialise by both his masters for “teamwork” purposes; and he hated them as an adult, forced to endure students attempting to ingratiate themselves with him when they were hopeless in the classroom. He bore the least amount of socialising as best he could and hoped there would be useful intelligence from one of the guests.

Even people-watching was extra tedious at this party, though occasionally he did see something mildly interesting. His sour expression nearly turned to one of surprise when he saw Granger enter the party with Cormac McLaggen of all people. The boy appeared to be holding her firmly by the waist, and she was squirming in an attempt to put space between the two of them. Severus stopped watching when Granger escaped McLaggen’s clutches from underneath a bunch of mistletoe, and he returned to silently observing the other guests.

He was eavesdropping into Eldred Worple’s conversation with Sanguini about recent vampire movements when Slughorn grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip to spin him face-to-face with his least favourite person.

_“Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!” hiccoughed Slughorn happily. “I was just talking about Harry’s exceptional potion-making! Some credit must go to you, of course, you taught him for five years!”_

Snape enjoyed the look of intense discomfort that came over the boy’s face at this exclamation, then narrowed his eyes at Potter. _“Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to teach Potter anything at all.”_

It was surprising the boy was even capable of following written instructions. He wondered just how thorough his annotations in his old Potions text were to turn Potter from a passable Potions student to an outstanding one.

_“Well, then, it’s natural ability!” shouted Slughorn. “You should have seen what he gave me, first lesson, the Draught of Living Death—never had a student produce finer on a first attempt, I don’t think even you, Severus—”_

_“Really?”_ said Severus quietly. It figured Slughorn’s memory would be so biased as to remember that Potter’s efforts could ever overtake his own, even when they were using the same methods. His own methods.

Slughorn seemed to sense his displeasure, because then he changed the subject to what courses the boy wonder was taking. Severus barely paid any attention to the conversation, making socially acceptable yet derisive remarks when necessary, briefly noting Luna Lovegood had made another one of her outrageous statements when a commotion by the door caught his attention. 

Draco was being dragged in by Argus Filch.

The boy looked distinctly ill, and not dressed to socialise. He gave an obviously fake excuse that he was party-crashing, and Severus watched with barely concealed disgust when Draco’s pretence of sucking up to Slughorn worked. Though it was good Slughorn was so soft on the Slytherins. Someone had to be.

Severus hated to ruin the party (except he didn’t), but he saw an excellent opportunity to force Draco to speak with him. 

_“I’d like a word with you, Draco,”_ he said.

“Now, now, Severus,” said Slughorn, hiccoughing again, “it’s Christmas, don’t be too hard _—”_

_“I’m his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be,”_ Severus said curtly _._ He knew as a former Head Slughorn would respect this excuse, despite how lenient he liked to be. _“Follow me, Draco.”_

Severus could feel Draco’s resentment as he followed him down the hallways a short way into an empty classroom.

Severus whirled around in the gloom of the empty classroom and studied Draco’s face. There were dark circles under Draco’s eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy grey tinge.

“What do you think you are doing?” Severus asked quietly.

“Nothing. I was crashing a party, like I said,” Draco replied with a defiant tilt of his chin.

“You know what I mean. I was referring to the Bell incident. You _cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled—”_ Draco was dead if he was expelled.

_“I didn’t have anything to do with it, all right?”_

_“I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it.”_ Severus did not add those suspicions had come from Potter, because even Draco had enough sense to discredit that. 

Severus then tried to probe the boy’s thoughts but found himself blocked. The resulting conversation in which he tried to gauge the boy’s thoughts on the Dark Lord and his plan was as fruitless as ever, and then Severus lost all patience when Draco said Defence Against the Dark Arts was a joke class. Draco, of all people, should have known the importance of the class.

Severus snapped. “... _Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance on assistants like Crabbe and Goyle—”_

_“...I’ve got other people on my side, better people!”_

_“Then why not confide in me, and I can—”_

_“I know what you’re up to! You want to steal my glory!”_

Severus paused again. Technically, what Draco had said was true, not that he would ever admit it. But it was for the boy’s own good. _“You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father’s capture and imprisonment has upset you,”_ — _for fuck’s sake child open your eyes and see what being a Death Eater does to you_ , he thought— _“but—”_

At this, Draco opened his mouth furiously, seemed to think better of it, then stormed out of the room. 

Severus let out a slow exhale. The entire conversation could have gone better, but he knew the chances of reaching through to the boy had been slim.

He then straightened up and went back to the party. He did not want to, but he could not disappear without making his excuses to Slughorn, and at the moment he had none.

The party was more unbearable than it was before. Already, he had been accosted by two students who wanted to make small talk. Severus’ head hurt; he had been stretched thin; he had given Granger time off from brewing to prepare for her exams so he had to brew on top of his teaching duties, spying, and watching after Potter and Draco Malfoy. He wanted to leave, but as ambivalent as he felt about Slughorn the man had encouraged his career when he had been younger, and he felt obligated enough to make the appearance of caring about the Slytherin patronage system.

“Professor Snape! I didn’t see you earlier. I’ve found Defence is finally interesting this year—” _Oh for the love of_ —

It was McLaggen. Severus gave him a curt nod and hoped the boy would get the message and leave him alone, but he had no such luck. He scowled at McLaggen as the boy babbled about how there were many distinguished Aurors in his family background, and how he knew he had the talent to be one himself. He normally disliked the arrogant boy but found him more distasteful than usual this evening. The Slytherin boys in his year may have been children to evil mass-murderers but at least they had manners around women. The boy’s habit of shoving appetisers into his mouth and talking before barely swallowing was also quite unseemly. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

While the boy regaled him with tales of a distant relative who had invented a potion that dealt with male pattern baldness, Severus slipped a few drops of Essence of Ipecac onto McLaggen’s appetiser plate (he would’ve been a poor excuse for a Potions Master if he didn’t carry something that allowed him a quick get-away from dull parties, after all) and watched in heavily veiled anticipation as the boy ingested the poisoned dragon tartare.

McLaggen immediately vomited on Severus’ shoes.

“You’ve just earned yourself one month of detentions,” Severus sneered, not an ounce of the delight he was feeling on the inside showing on his face. It was easy to pretend as the smell was truly foul. The boy looked at him with an expression of dumbfounded disbelief, before he nodded jerkily and rushed out the door, hand covering his mouth.

Poisoning McLaggen felt even more satisfying than his original plan of poisoning the next student who said they wanted to keep in touch after graduation, and gave him a convenient excuse to leave the party.

He relished the look of disgust on Slughorn’s face when he informed the clearly inebriated man the vomit on his shoes was from McLaggen. He hinted the boy had perhaps had too much to drink and watched Slughorn’s face darken at the idea of students imbibing excessively at his own party, the drunken hypocrite.

Severus vanished the vomit immediately after stepping out from the party, and was softly stalking down the draughty dungeon corridors to his chambers when he found the door of one of the abandoned classrooms left ajar.

Mood perking up at the prospect of deducting house points for possible illicit activity, Severus was disappointed when instead he found a dejected-looking Hermione Granger sitting in a corner. He opened his mouth for a moment, before he thought better of it and strode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks so much for the comments and love! My arms are doing better now so I’m responding to comments again - I’ve missed being able to talk to you all. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter - I’ve been looking forward to posting this one for a long time. :)


	9. Holly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dec 27th note: this fic is currently on a posting hiatus until I finish writing the last 8 chapters. For more details please see my [tumblr post about it](https://viridiantly.tumblr.com/post/638684629626388480/advanced-floriography-posting-hiatus).

Her hands were slippery with starch as Hermione peeled potatoes with her father, and she realised with a pang of guilt that she had not spent Christmas with her parents since her first year. Her parents were not big on holidays, so it never felt like she missed them during the winter, but had it really been five years? In second year she had been in the hospital wing, third year she had spent at Hogwarts with Harry and Ron, fourth year was the Yule Ball, and fifth year she had spent with the Order at Grimmauld Place. How had they had so little time together as a family? It made her feel all the worse when her parents were obviously so happy to see her home for the holidays.

She was going to send them away in two days, and they were making plans for the rest of the holiday with her. Her father wanted to take her skating—“ _remember when I used to take you to skating lessons?”_ (she remembered clearly)—and her mother wanted to take her to visit her great aunt Emmeline for tea. They had plans to see a film.

It was too much. If Professor Snape wasn’t due to arrive shortly after their Christmas dinner she knew she could never find the strength to send them away. She swallowed the lump in her throat and returned to savagely peeling the potato in her hand.

“Is something wrong, Hermione?” her father asked, peering through his glasses at her.

“No, nothing really...just trouble with the boys,” Hermione said, deflecting from the truth.

“Your mother and I thought something like that might’ve been why you’ve come home at this time of year,” her father said. Hermione felt the guilt settle deeper in her gut, because it was true. If she hadn’t been quarrelling with Ron, and if she wasn’t sending her parents away soon she wouldn’t have returned home for Christmas. “What’s the problem?” he asked gently, setting down his own half-peeled potato.

Hermione laughed tearily. “It’s silly. I asked Ron to go to a party with me and he ended up snogging another girl.”

“Ah,” her father paused. “Do I need to attack him with my dental drills?”

“That would be difficult to arrange, but it probably would make me feel better,” Hermione said with a weak chuckle.

“I’m sorry to hear that, honey,” her father said, awkwardly drying his hands with a towel. “Well, you know, you’ve had lots of ups and downs with the boys. I’m sure you three will survive this mess once again.” He patted Hermione on the back and then turned to check the turkey in the oven.

Hermione smiled tightly. This was the reason why she found it difficult to open up to her father about anything—he always had the perspective that any problem was temporary, which always felt as if he was minimising her problems in the moment. It was his way of trying to make her feel better but it grated. Still, at least he cared.

Christmas dinner was a quiet affair. Richard and Jean Granger had not invited any friends, and they had no close family to invite, so it was just the three of them sitting at their dining table for six.

Conversation had started out well. Hermione listened attentively to their latest tales from their practice and enjoyed the life updates on some of their clients. She didn’t even mind when her mother had pointedly brought up that her receptionist’s daughter had found yet another boyfriend. It wasn’t until halfway through the dinner when she talked about how she was helping the school hospital wing brew potions that the conversation took a frosty turn.

“Does your school have a lot of accidents requiring healing potions?” Jean asked, cutlery frozen over her meal.

Hermione swallowed. “ _Mum_. It’s not that—it’s just normal things like bruise paste or calming draughts—”

Her mother pursed her lips. “And why are they prescribing calming draughts to a school full of children? What do these children need calming from?”

Hermione could not answer for a moment. “Maybe they have anxiety,” she offered weakly.

Both her parents exchanged glances at this, but said no more.

It wasn’t until later that evening when Hermione was scrubbing dishes the non-magical way, one eye on the dishes and another on Crookshanks to make sure he didn’t get at the leftovers, that she realised she had forgotten to hide away the luggage that she had packed for her parents. She had packed their summer clothes in their suitcases while they had been busy at work because it was summer in Sunshine Coast, Australia, where she was sending them.

She ran upstairs to her room, dreading what she would see, and found her mother staring oddly at the suitcases.

Her mother slowly lifted her head and looked at Hermione. “Hermione, love, what’s this?” she asked.

At least the suitcases had not been opened.

Hermione’s mind blanked. “I, um…”

At that moment, her father entered the room. “Going somewhere?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest.

“I just wanted to see if I could shrink suitcases! They seem to hold more things than my trunk and I thought it would be nice to have suitcases instead of a trunk this year,” Hermione said, thinking fast on her feet, voice remarkably steady.

Her parents didn’t seem entirely convinced.

“You know if anything’s wrong, you can tell us,” her mother said softly, taking a seat on her bed.

Hermione glanced at the clock on her bedside table in alarm. It was a quarter to nine, which was when Snape said he would arrive.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Hermione said, forcing herself to calm down. She focused on the words, and willed herself to believe them, a lying technique she learned from Snape.

“I’m feeling rather thirsty,” she said. “Let’s have some tea?” She gestured to her bedroom door, and sagged in relief when her parents left her bedroom.

They had barely set their things down for tea when a knock sounded from their front door.

“I’ll get it!” Hermione rushed to the door before her parents could move.

She opened the door to reveal a very disgruntled looking Professor Snape, who was dressed in a black wool coat with a dark grey and green scarf.

“Oh hello, Professor Snape, what a pleasant surprise!” Hermione said loudly for the benefit of her parents, and gestured for him to enter.

Snape’s eyebrows went up at “pleasant surprise”, but he did not comment.

Hermione heard her parents emerge from their living room.

“Hello, Professor Snape, welcome,” Jean Granger said, staring quizzically at the man. “We weren’t expecting you,” she added, though not rudely.

“Apologies for the surprise call. Our staff has been discussing some news and we felt a short visit in person to announce it would be appropriate,” Snape said smoothly, handing over his scarf and coat to Hermione. Her parents exchanged a glance. “It’s not bad news,” he added hastily, but her parents did not seem settled.

“Well, come in, we’ve just sat down for some tea,” said Jean, looking pointedly at Hermione.

Everyone awkwardly exchanged glances before Snape cleared his throat.

“I know you must be very curious what brought me here late Christmas Day. Hermione has been chosen as the apprentice for our Hospital Wing Matron and as such needs to cut her holiday short so she can start early on her apprenticeship,” he said.

“That’s good,” Richard Granger said. Both of her parents were smiling, but not very enthusiastically.

“It’s a small Hospital Wing, but becoming a Healer is very much like becoming a doctor,” Snape elaborated.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news!” her mother said, smiling wider. Both of her parents now seemed very pleased with this news, and it was at that moment that Snape shot two _Stupefys_ in rapid succession at them both.

“Did I really get an apprenticeship with Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione asked, quickly turning the lights out, as Snape indicated.

“Yes, but the apprenticeship won’t start for a while. Altering their memories would be easier if the last thing they felt for you was joy instead of worry,” Snape said, going around the sofa to approach the Grangers.

“Stay near me in case I need you,” he said while he held the eyelids of her father up. He leaned his forehead Mr Granger’s, and began to softly intone in a low pitched voice while maintaining eye contact, the only word that was intelligible from time to time being “Hermione”.

Hermione clenched and unclenched her hands against the muted floral pattern of the living room sofa, unable to relax while keeping guard over her parents.

What felt like an age later, Snape gestured towards her. “The memories.”

Reaching into her pockets, Hermione unshrunk two jars filled with glowing silver whisps, each marked with a different parent’s name. The memory creation had been rushed in the two weeks before the holidays; Hermione had not slept well for weeks with worry over the fear that she had forgotten a detail or aspect of their life in the false memories that she had created, but Snape had assured her that the job was thorough. She handed the jar for her father over to Snape, and slowly Snape dropped each memory near her father’s temple, where the silver strings of thought were immediately absorbed into his head.

Snape moved on to work on her mother, using the same process of leaning against her forehead and chanting under his breath. Ten minutes had passed when her mother suddenly sat up.

“Hermione, no!” Jean gasped. Hermione’s heart rate immediately spiked to a rough staccato.

Snape swore and _Stupefied_ Mrs Granger again, then turned to Hermione.

“It might be easier if you were the one who laid down the charms for your mother,” he said. “Her mind recognises my presence as foreign and she is very reluctant to part with memories of you.”

Hermione’s heart continued to beat wildly. She knew the theory of how to suppress the memories, and had even practised the intonation, but the thought of actually doing it made her sick.

“Can I have a moment?” she asked.

“Of course.” Snape returned to the seat he had previously taken while they drank their tea, and sat motionlessly. Hermione squinted at him in the dark—his black jumper and trousers stood out against the pale floral pattern of the sofa, and his face was a pale slash that peeked out through his black hair.

Hermione waited until her heart had stopped racing and her palms had stopped sweating to approach her mother. With shaking hands, she brushed back her mother’s hair from her face, and tried not to think about what she was doing.

She leaned her forehead against her mother’s, and opened her mother’s eyes to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry, mum,” she whispered, before slowly starting the same chant that Snape used. She searched her mother’s mind for memories of herself, ruthlessly suppressing any that she found. It was slow going, as her mother seemed determined to hang onto her memories, but there wasn’t much left for her to do. Snape had managed to reach her baby years. It was gut-wrenching to feel the elation her mother felt when she held her for the first time, but that memory had to go, as well as the memory of the moving performance that her mother and father had seen of _The Winter’s Tale_ , where they decided on the name “Hermione” shortly before she was born, for the virtuous and beautiful Queen of Sicily.

Finally, she finished. She released her hold on her mother’s head, and looked at Snape in confusion when he handed her a white handkerchief in the gloom of the dark living room. He gestured to her face.

She touched her fingers to her cheeks and felt moisture. Oh. She was crying.

Taking the cloth from Snape, she hastily wiped her tears away.

“I can do the memories,” she said, reaching for the jar of false memories that Snape held.

Snape held onto the jar for a moment, before he handed them over. “As you wish,” he said.

Hermione felt another wave of nausea as she slowly dropped each fake memory into her mother’s mind, establishing that she was Monica Wilkins, that she had met Wendell Wilkins at dentistry school, and that they never wanted children.

“Alright, what next?” Hermione asked, wiping her palms on her jeans.

“I’m going to take them to the hotel and fabricate two dead bodies, just what I do every Christmas,” Snape replied dryly. “Wait to be contacted by the authorities. Remember the name of the solicitors that I’ve sent you.”

* * *

Severus carried the bodies of the Grangers into their car one by one, and loaded the trunk with their luggage.

“You know how to drive?” the youngest and still conscious Granger asked him, eyes wide.

Severus rolled his eyes. He had been driving since he was a teenager; Tobias had made sure of that by teaching him with the lorry the cotton mill had used, when he had briefly been employed there. He wondered how long Granger would continue to think he was a Pureblood despite the mounting evidence.

“I do. But if you will remember, the whole point of this exercise is to crash the car. You needn’t worry,” Severus said, sliding into the car. It was a surprisingly old and slightly shabby car considering the occupation of the Grangers, but their entire house had been a lot more modest than he had expected. He hoped that meant they had a healthy retirement fund.

He left Hermione without another word, and tried to enjoy his short drive to the nearest hotel. It was silent in the car, aside from the light snores of Mr Granger.

He pulled up to The Unicorn Inn, a 16th-century bed and breakfast where Monica and Wendell Wilkins had reservations for the evening.

He rennervated the Grangers, Confunded them into thinking that he was the cabbie and that they had a flight tomorrow from London to Brisbane, from where they would then go on to the Sunshine Coast.

“Enjoy your trip,” Severus called with forced cheer after the Grangers, and waited for them to enter the inn before he sped away.

The drive along the woods was silent and relaxing, away from the Grangers. Severus was a little unsettled by the memories he had of younger Hermione—especially of Hermione crying about the relentless bullying that happened at school and how her parents had handled it by telling her to be the bigger person and that “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me” (a lie that had him grimacing, as words were weapons he used to hurt people with frequently). He had expected memories of parents who fawned over her every achievement, but instead he saw parents who rarely understood what made her proud of herself, though they had encouraged her to do as much book learning as possible, with not-entirely-subtle guidance to go into medicine, which the girl seemed to have at taken to at least.

Some memories he had expected, like those of an overly-precocious young Hermione who would read everything and anything, who would ask difficult to answer questions and would not stop babbling about interesting ideas she came across. It was surprising how few memories they had of their daughter once she had gone off to Hogwarts.

But he could not deny the love they felt for her, even though they had no idea what to do with a precocious child who made strange things happen, who turned into a young woman approaching adulthood who lived in an entirely different world from the one that they knew.

Severus parked the car slowly on the winding road that ran through the woods, and set up some Notice-Me-Not charms around the perimeter of his “accident”.

He took the two chips of teeth he had taken from the Grangers (with an unspoken apology for wrecking their perfect smiles, but he knew they could fix that), and dropped them in separate beakers of Skele-Gro. The thick green substance bubbled, and soon he extracted two full sets of teeth from the beakers.

He _Accio’d_ any remains of his hair or clothes from the Grangers’ car, and then transfigured two fallen logs into bald and nail-less bodies of the Grangers. Severus set the teeth into the fake bodies with a grimace at the resulting squelch, and set about implanting and replicating the bits of hair and nails that he had collected from the Grangers. Siphoning a little blood from the vials he had taken from the Grangers, he spelled the volume to grow, then filled their “veins” with the resulting “blood”. Fingerprints came next, and then Severus cast a spell so the bodies would mimic rigor mortis and slowly decay. Finally, he Conjured some clothes for the bodies.

He levitated the false Grangers and some conjured luggage into the car, artfully arranged them in their seats, then flipped the car off the lip of the road. A loud crash sounded through the silent forest, and the bodies crashed into the shattered windshield, spraying blood in a wide arc onto the dimly lit snow.

Lips curling in satisfaction, Severus cancelled his Notice-Me-Not charms, and then Apparated to his next appointment.

* * *

“Severus, please do come again soon,” Lucius Malfoy said, his patrician drawl a shadow of its former glory.

Severus inclined his head. “You know my post keeps me busy, Lucius, but I will try.”

He held his breath, and then Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. The walk back to the castle doors through the swirling snow was just another brilliant addition to his day that seemed to have no end. At least the heavy silence that blanketed the path from the gate to the castle door was comforting—a side effect of the snow and the late hour. It was a welcome change from the discussion of Muggle torture methods over champagne and canapés at Malfoy Manor.

Severus paused in front of the staircases, then headed down to the dungeons after debating the merits of seeing Dumbledore. There was no need to make a report immediately as nothing he learned was time sensitive. He could take some time off for Christmas, though it was Boxing Day already.

His shoulders were tense until he passed through the wards of his rooms, where he headed straight for the secret chamber behind his right-hand bookshelf.

Vials upon vials of memories lined the walls. Tonight, he added two new ones—one of Macnair planning the death of another Muggle-born wizarding family, and Draco looking pale and shaken after his audience with the Dark Lord, with a thin trickle of blood flowing from his nose.

Scanning the walls brimming with so many vials containing similarly awful memories, Severus was seized with the urge to blast it all. Instead, he slowly backed out of his chamber of memories and headed to bed, where he paused at the small pile of presents piled on the trunk at the foot of his bed. There was Albus’ usual lumpy package of socks, Minerva’s usual bottle of spirits, and Sprout’s usual gift of herbs. They were the only ones whom he had not been able to dissuade from giving gifts over the years. On top of those three sat a Christmas card, a new addition.

He picked it up, frowning down at the glittery snowy landscape on the front of the card. Inside, it simply read _Happy Christmas Professor Snape._ There was no name, though he knew that handwriting anywhere. It was Granger.

He stared at the card, almost not comprehending the message written on it. It seemed like such an inane, mundane thing to hold in his hands. None of his students gave him Christmas cards, though other professors often received them. His heart gave an involuntary lurch in his chest.

Severus carefully set the card back on top of his pile, and then he let his body fall into his bed, where he fell into a restless slumber.

* * *

Hermione woke to the sound of heavy pounding on her front door. Hastily, she threw on trousers and a jumper, and ran down the two flights to the front door.

“Hello?” she greeted, opening the door to reveal a greying policeman and a severe-looking younger man dressed in tweed.

“Is this the Granger residence?” the older of the two asked, moustache bristling in the biting cold.

“Yes, how may I help you?” Hermione asked, heart thudding. This was it. This was when she would find out if their plan worked or not.

“I’m Inspector Lanning, and this is the coroner, Mr Ash,” the older man introduced. “Are you of any relation to Jean and Richard Granger?”

“Yes, I’m their daughter,” she said faintly.

“We have some bad news for you. Could we come in?” asked Inspector Lanning, eyes already sweeping past Hermione into the hall.

“Of course, come in,” Hermione ushered them inside, and sat them down at the same sofa Snape had sat on not twelve hours ago. She was surprised at the efficiency of law enforcement.

After politely declining a drink, the two men looked at each other before Inspector Lanning spoke.

“I’m sorry to disturb you on Boxing Day, but this could not wait.” He took a deep breath. “This morning, your parents were found dead at the site of a car accident in the woods near Finstock. Mr Ash has determined the cause of death to be an accident, and we have confirmed their identities with their driver’s licenses. He’s here if you have any questions.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She let her whole body tense and freeze, and she did not repress her need to take deep breaths. She was not sure if her nerves and sense of anticipation at carrying out her deceit were coming across as a realistic response to the news, but she hoped the inspector and coroner would read it as shock.

“Did they pass quickly?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes. It was over very quickly based on what we could see. We’re very sorry for your loss,” the coroner added, eyes softening at her rigid posture.

Hermione had not slept well the entire night, and it wasn’t difficult to feign a look of dazed exhaustion.

“Thank you for notifying me,” she said, voice trembling with nerves.

“Do you have any relatives or friends you could stay with?” the Inspector asked.

Hermione nodded, as to get the two men to leave as soon as possible. Now that the “death notification” had happened, she needed to plan a funeral, talk to the solicitors Snape suggested who dealt with Muggle affairs, go to the bank to transfer some of the funds from her university account to “Monica and Wendell Wilkins”, and finish the rest of her holidays.

“I have a great aunt who lives nearby who I’ll ring soon,” she said. “I think...I’d really like to be alone right now,” she added, letting her lips quiver.

“Are you sure, Miss Granger?” Mr Ash asked.

“I’m sure,” Hermione said with a sniff. “I really just need some time alone. You know. To process.” She hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick, though her sense of unreality at the whole situation was not fake at all.

The inspector and the coroner exchanged glances.

“Alright. If you ever need anything, call us at the station and we can put you in contact with grief counselling services. It’s a tough thing, when parents pass, especially when it happens so unexpectedly,” Inspector Lanning said. Then he slowly raised himself from the sofa and headed to the door.

Hermione followed them to the entryway to see them out.

“That’s a nice wreath miss,” the coroner said, pausing at the front door. Hermione looked behind her in confusion—her parents never put up outdoor decorations—but then she noticed a holly wreath decorating her door. The berries were unusually large and red.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both for coming over.”

“No problem. You take care of yourself,” the inspector said, tipping his hat.

Hermione watched as the two of them walked away, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. It was still hard to believe that she had done it. Sent her parents away and convinced the authorities. She took a deep shuddering breath, and wrapped her arms around herself tightly.

Turning, Hermione examined the wreath closely. She ran a few revealing spells over the wreath, and discovered it was a cleverly disguised ward of some sort.

It must’ve been Snape then. Was this a Christmas gift? In any case, it was quite fitting, as hollies stood for _foresight._ They also stood for _domestic bliss,_ but the idea of Snape wishing anybody “domestic bliss” was a laughable one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Snape's secret memory room goes [this fic](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5061224/1/A-Looping-of-the-Scales) by to Ms-Figg, and credit to the head canon that Snape learns how to drive due to Tobias' job at the cotton mill goes to [Jaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxon/pseuds/Jaxon) I believe.
> 
> Sorry I couldn’t get to the lovely comments in the last two weeks, it’s been quite hectic lately. I am moving my update dates to try a new schedule, and will likely stick to one chapter every two weeks until I finish drafting the entire fic. Next chapter should be up in the first week or two of January. If you're curious I've got an update on the state of the fic [here](https://viridiantly.tumblr.com/post/638129444721147904/advanced-floriography-writing-update).
> 
> Thanks all for coming on this journey with me so far and I hope the rest of the story is just as enjoyable for everyone! Happy winter holidays to all of you, and wish you all the best for the new year! :)


	10. Dogbane

Hermione had returned to Hogwarts early. The loneliness that plagued her during the rest of her winter break had been unbearable, along with the grief and the guilt that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her heart with the absence of her parents. It was as if her parents had truly died, and they might as well have, because there was a very real chance that she would never see them again.

No amount of list-making or homework had eased her mind, not even with the funeral preparations for her parents. There had been a lot of time to ruminate, made worse by each poorly made meal that she ate. Years of Hogwarts meals and holidays at the Weasleys’ had spoiled her and her own attempts at cooking were pathetic in comparison, though she had got rather good at making cheese toasties.

She was ruminating again when she caught sight of Harry, Ginny, and Ron near the portrait of the Fat Lady.

_“Harry! Ginny!”_ she shouted at them to grab their attention, and then ran up to them to give them a hug. She ignored Ron, not sure how to act around him after the events of Slughorn’s party. It had not been as satisfying as she thought it would be to invite McLaggen in his place, and she did not know how to deal with that.

She gave Harry the scroll Dumbledore had handed to her earlier as they stepped into the common room. 

_“So how was your Christmas?”_ Harry asked, as they found a corner to sit in. The tension that had plagued her since Christmas eased at the sight of Harry’s familiar concern.

_“Oh, fine,” she shrugged. “Nothing special._ How was it for you _?_ ”

Harry looked as if he was about to say something about how his holidays at the Weasley’s went, and then thought better of it. Instead, he told her the story of what he overheard between Snape and Malfoy during Slughorn’s party. 

Hermione hesitated. She knew Harry had a _—_ somewhat justifiable _—_ hatred of Malfoy and Snape, but it was frustrating to deal with his obsession with the two, which had only grown after Sirius’ death. 

_“Don’t you think—?”_

_“—he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing?”_

_“Well, yes,” said Hermione._

Harry huffed, and they debated Snape’s actions until he grudgingly admitted to Hermione’s assessment of the situation, but it was obvious he had not changed his mind about Snape. It was slowly becoming very irritating being stuck between Harry and Snape in their feud with each other, and neither men even knew that they had put her in this position.

Two days later, Harry filled in Hermione on his latest lesson with Dumbledore. 

_“Horcruxes... **Horcruxes...** I’ve never even heard of them…”_ Hermione said, brow furrowed. She didn’t think very highly of Harry’s chances of getting Slughorn’s memory by approaching him, and wondered what was so important about it. When Harry mentioned Ron’s suggestion of just talking to Slughorn, there was a familiar rush of irritation and sadness, but not the rage that she had felt before Christmas. 

But Hermione did not feel sad enough to break her silence with Ron. Potions class that afternoon had her huddling near Ernie’s side of the table as to avoid Harry and Ron, and she felt a strange sense of vindication that the lesson on creating antidotes would force Harry to confront the fact that he could not rely on someone else’s shortcuts forever.

But of course, Harry would show her up by missing the point of the lesson by cheating yet again; and, of course, Slughorn would fawn over Harry for presenting a bezoar as a solution. And then compare Harry to his mother, who sounded like someone who actually understood potions. It wasn’t fair.

Hermione felt a little guilty about her satisfaction with the fact that Harry failed to get Slughorn’s memory after class. She knew it was irrational of her to be jealous of Harry when it wasn’t even Harry’s potion-making skill that was being praised; she knew she was jealous of the Half-Blood Prince, whoever they were. It didn’t stop her from feeling the burn of envy when she saw Harry being praised for not even thinking in class.

The next few weeks, Hermione spent even more time than usual in the library, reading the foulest of Dark Arts texts, but still could not find anything useful about Horcruxes. 

All she could find was a short fragment in _Magick Moste Evile_ : “... _of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction…”_

It was disappointing that the book was more show than substance; the entire search was maddening. The contents were not particularly evil, there were no hexes placed on it, and the only remotely Dark thing it did was wail and moan occasionally. Hermione briefly wondered if perhaps she was spending too much time with Snape and was becoming too used to the Dark Arts _—_ then she realised. _Snape_.

* * *

“Professor?”

Severus did not look up from his marking. He grunted in acknowledgement.

“Do you know anything about Horcruxes?”

Severus lazily scrawled out a comment for the student to double-check their references— _magical references, not fictional—_ before his mind caught up to Granger’s question.

“Where did you hear about Horcruxes?” he asked, fixing his gaze on Granger. 

“Well...that is...you see…” She fidgeted in her chair. Severus continued staring.

“Dumbledore mentioned them in a lesson with Harry and we need to figure out what they are,” she said.

“Is that all?” Severus sat back in his seat, and crossed his arms.

Granger peeked up at him from below her lashes and immediately looked away. She appeared to debate with herself for a few moments before speaking.

“Voldemort has a Horcrux,” she finally said. “We think.”

Severus had figured as much when she had brought up the topic, but he felt a strange need for her to tell him so.

“I cannot recall what Horcruxes are off the top of my mind, but they sound familiar. What do you know of them so far?”

“Only that they’re very Dark,” Granger said with a frown. “I’ve checked all the books on the Dark Arts in the library and there’s no information on them.”

Severus thought for a few moments. “I own books that the library does not,” he finally said. “We can look through them together.”

Granger’s lips parted in surprise, and Severus frowned. 

“I have many books and I don’t have time to deal with Potter’s research that he’s obviously foisted on his more able friends again,” he added, so things were clear. 

As January eased into February, snow melted and rain began to pour again. Severus’ insomnia eased a little, though his low-grade sense of unease grew in his waking hours as both the Death Eaters and the Order were silent _—_ both Dumbledore and Voldemort had left their organisations, stating they had business to take care of elsewhere. Severus wondered if they were searching for the same thing; Voldemort had seemed very interested in wand makers as of late, which he thought was strangely belated as the problem between his wand and Harry’s wand had been known for some time now.

Severus contemplated his own wand, which was made of cedarwood and dragon heartstring, twelve and a half inches long, somewhat rigid. He wondered what the Voldemort could be looking for _—_ he had accomplished such great and terrible feats with his phoenix core wand Severus had a hard time imagining a wand that would better suit his needs. Surely the Priori Incantatem issue with Potter could be worked around, though Severus supposed it was a small mercy that Potter continued to live due to Voldemort’s obsession with finishing him off with a Killing Curse.

It was a quiet evening in early February when his Mark began to burn. He had been combing through Dark Arts texts with Granger while a cauldron of purple Murtlap tentacles sat pickling in the corner in preparation for making Murtlap Essence. There was a faint tang of pickle brine in the lab. 

“Miss Granger.” Severus stood up, and carefully locked his books away in his warded desk drawers. 

Granger looked up from her own text, face softening from her earlier look of fierce concentration.

“I must go. You may keep this text to read until we meet again,” he said, clenching his left fist. “Please keep it safe. It was my mother’s.”

Her eyes darted down to his clenched fist, and he knew that she had figured it out. 

“Yes, sir,” she said. She hesitated before she blurted out, “Please stay safe.”

He shot her a sharp look but inclined his head briefly before he left.

He stalked through the dungeon corridors until he reached the portrait of the Drowning Man who guarded his quarters.

“ _Dogbane,”_ he said quietly under his breath, and strode into his chambers without waiting for the portrait to close. The password had been a bit of a whimsical choice. Severus had changed his password to “Dogbane” after being forced to brew another foul concoction for Fang’s arthritis in a fit of pique, for which Hagrid had been grateful as always, but he also liked the symbolism as dogbane stood for _deceit_. He liked to have small reminders that were meaningless to people other than himself that what he was doing was all a farce, because sometimes he found it difficult to remember where Severus Snape the Spy and Severus Snape the Death Eater began or ended. 

He Floo’d to Spinner’s End, where he kept his mask and robes, and then pressed his wand to the Mark and Apparated. 

In his early days as a spy he had kept his mask and cloak at Hogwarts, but he had discovered that Flooing to his home to Apparate was faster than leaving Hogwarts by foot so he could Apparate from the grounds. The chance of running into students while dressed as a Death Eater, even Disillusioned, was also avoided.

His feet landed on the ground with a muffled thud in the middle of a small village, next to an ancient pub with the sign “The George & Dragon”. A dog barked in the distance. In the slight evening fog, the village looked like something out of a fairy tale, as if time had frozen four hundred years ago, and there were no signs of life except for an increasing number of dark figures appearing out of thin air, black voids in a dim silvery landscape. 

Severus held his breath as he counted the number of Death Eaters. There were more than twenty members of his brethren present, many of whom had recently been incarcerated in Azkaban. The only upside to the breakout from Azkaban was that Lucius Malfoy was back, which meant Malfoy Manor had been open for guests and Wormtail had finally moved out from his home.

He felt a chill go down his spine as he caught sight of the Dark Lord standing in the middle of the road.

“Good evening,” Voldemort said. “I have been gifted a wand guaranteed to bring victory by a… _friend_ overseas. Let us see if he was a liar or not.” His noseless features moved into a twisted parody of a smile, then he walked to the nearest cottage. 

Voldemort knocked on the door theatrically. Severus prayed no one would answer the door, but after a few moments a tall man dressed in flannel pajamas opened it.

“Hello? What do you want so late at night?” the man asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“Is that any way you should greet a guest? Such rudeness,” Voldemort said, his smile widening to show teeth. He pulled out from his robes the ugliest wand Severus had ever seen.

“Is this some sort of joke?” the man demanded, eyes widening at the sight of Voldemort’s noseless face, posture suddenly straight.

Voldemort ignored his answer and raised his wand. “ _Avada Kedavra!”_ he cast languidly. There was a flash of green light, then the man fell.

“Thomas?” A woman’s voice came from inside the house. Severus cursed under his breath and hoped they didn’t have children.

“Avery. Come, let us teach our foul Muggle hosts a lesson in manners,” Voldemort said, gracefully extending his arm in the direction of a masked man. Severus closed his eyes when he heard the high-pitched screams of small children, and then cursed inwardly when doors to other houses began opening. He thought fast and shot sticking spells at the rest of the doors that he could see, and then the slaughter began.

Death Eaters laughed as they shot Killing Curse after Killing Curse at the men who emerged with rakes and shovels. One man had a hunting rifle, which Severus spelled to hit Death Eaters from a distance, but it wasn’t enough. Soon, all the Muggles fell, though several Death Eaters who had been slow with Shield Charms had been heavily wounded. 

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Stop,” Voldemort commanded. He looked down thoughtfully at his newly acquired wand. 

“That’s enough for tonight. Greyback, have your companions give these bodies a makeover. We shall meet later,” he said, and Disapparated.

Severus watched dispassionately as Greyback and two other werewolves slashed away at the dead bodies. The Muggles were going to be on alert for large animal attacks for days now. He shielded himself behind a tree and waited until all the others had left to cast a quick _Finite_ on his sticking charms that were keeping the doors of the rest of the villagers closed. When the confused voices of villagers filled the night air he Apparated away, trading in the sound of rapidly approaching sirens for the suffocating silence of Spinner’s End. 

He slid down his front door and crouched in his hallway, his fists clenched to stop the shaking of his hands, as he tried to stop thinking of everything he could have done differently.

Severus barely noticed when Granger started speaking again.

“Of the Horcrux, the only known cure exists in _The_ _Blodlyf,_ written by Myrddin Wyllt, now lost to the Mists of Thime,” she read aloud from a passage on ‘Miracle Cures’ in _Bloodletting and Miracle Cures._

Severus stopped his grading and moved to lean over her shoulder. His movements were slow and stiff; he was Occluding heavily to not let the events of the previous night affect his actions, but he could still feel momentary pangs of rage and helplessness break through his mental defences. The fact that he had not slept at all did not help ease the pain in his joints. Despite all this, he could still make out the soft scent of vanilla and something floral coming from Granger—and he abruptly pulled back when he realised it.

“Is there more?” 

“No, this is it.”

Severus straightened up and looked into the distance. “ _The Blodlyf_ …that text sounds familiar,” he said. 

“Who is Myrddin Wyllt?” Granger asked.

“That was a name Merlin took on for a while _,_ meaning Merlin the Wild _._ It was said he went ‘wild’ for a time due to grief after his Lord died, and performed many miraculous cures as penance,” Severus answered. “And of course, we cannot forget that he was a Slytherin.”

“Of course not,” she said under her breath. Under other circumstances, Severus would have smirked at this, but not on this day. “Should I look more into this?”

He grimaced. “That book is written mostly on legendary miracle cures. It is exceedingly unlikely such a book by Merlin exists.”

“It does seem pretty unlikely...it’s really strange, isn’t it, that a Horcrux should be an ailment? At least now we know we’re looking for an illness,” she said.

“Strange, perhaps. I would not be so hasty to assume it is an illness. Some consider all Dark Arts an affliction, so this does not tell us much we did not know before. And all manner of folklore are associated with Merlin, most of them not true. But...to specify Myrddin Wyllt...” Severus drifted off, lost in thought for a moment. “We can look into it when we have finished the texts on the Dark Arts,” he said, stepping away from Granger and back to his desk. 

They found nothing remotely related to Horcruxes or Merlin the Wild after that, but Severus spent some time staring after Granger when she returned to her dormitory that evening with a spring in her step. There was still something innocent and soft in her, though he knew she was now of age and had grown up in a time of conflict. She was resourceful, but even the most resourceful people needed help sometimes, and he was tired of feeling helpless.

* * *

It was Ron’s birthday, March first, and Hermione had gone to help out in the Hospital Wing to avoid him. 

She winced as more snot splashed onto her apprentice healer’s robes. This was not the way that Hermione had expected her career in medicine to start.

Madam Pomfrey had sent for her at the beginning of February, with a note to start her training. After quizzing her on basic anatomy (Hermione thanked her precocious reading tendencies and her parents for buying her a copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_ when she was nine), as well as basic healing spells (here Snape was to be thanked), Madam Pomfrey had put her to work immediately with restocking the Hospital Wing’s potions stores and healing all manner of minor scrapes and hexes. She also let Hermione observe her at work on the more complicated accidental spellwork and injuries.

There were a lot of injuries that happened at Hogwarts, many of them probably preventable. Why had anyone thought moving staircases were a good idea? _Wizards paranoid of Muggle invasion_ was Hermione’s bitter conclusion.

But Hermione was dealing with a small Slytherin first year who had been hit by a Bat-Bogey hex gone wrong, and was cursing the fact that vanishing the black snot coming out of the boy’s face would probably hurt his sinuses, because the snot was disgusting.

A chime suddenly sounded through the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey appeared next to Hermione. “There’s been an emergency,” she said, looking calm as ever. “I need you to stay here and tend to Adrian until he has finished expelling all the fluid, no matter what you hear, do you understand?”

Hermione felt alarmed. Her first thought was that Harry had been injured, or Snape—but she swallowed and nodded.

Instead of Snape, she heard Harry’s voice explaining to Madam Pomfrey that Ron had been poisoned and that Harry had temporarily saved him with a bezoar. Guilt coursed through her at the fact that she had not considered that Ron could have been injured, instead of Harry or Snape. She tried not to think of it as she focused on vanishing the black mucus from the basin which was catching it, and weakly offered an encouraging smile to the boy who was still trying not to cry.

Finally, Madam Pomfrey finished whatever she was doing with Ron, and relieved Hermione from watching over the small boy.

Hermione rushed to the bed where Ron slept. He didn’t look any worse for wear in his sleep, and Hermione felt something loosen up within her chest. She blinked back tears as shame burned through her for giving Ron the cold shoulder since Christmas despite the fact that he had been (albeit weakly) trying to reconcile. She was glad she had his birthday gift—new Keeper’s gloves—in her bag in case she changed her mind about their silence. She set the gift down by his bedside table, and then sat stiffly beside him waiting for him to wake up.

Fred and George arrived two hours after Harry and Ginny were allowed in, shortly after the clock chimed ten. Harry and Ginny both gave her gentle hugs and then continued a conversation they had started earlier while they were outside. 

Hermione was just berating herself for being so distant with Ron when he nearly died again when she heard Ginny say something interesting. _“...Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas...so the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore.”_

_“Then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,” said Hermione, “Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for himself.”_

_“Er-my-nee,” croaked Ron unexpectedly from between them._

A hush descended upon them after that, and they all remained silent until Mr and Mrs Weasley hurried into the ward. Hermione stood by awkwardly as Mrs Weasley engulfed Harry in a hug and expressed how grateful she was to Harry for coming to the rescue of her family yet again. She wasn’t sure how the Weasleys would receive her, but her worries were settled when Mr Weasley made eye contact with her over their heads and smiled in a fatherly way. She felt a pang in her chest watching Ron’s parents fuss over him. She missed her own.

Once the elder Weasleys arrived, Madam Pomfrey started shooting them pointed looks, so Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid decided to give the family time with Ron and left the Hospital Wing. 

Harry and Hagrid instantly began a discussion on the attacks and what Dumbledore thought of them, and then Hagrid dropped a bombshell. 

_“Well—I jus’ heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took too much fer granted an’ maybe he—Snape—didn’ wan’ ter do it any more—”_ Hagrid said, and then explained to Harry that he had overheard Snape and Dumbledore speaking in the Forbidden Forest.

Hermione felt a sense of foreboding press on her shoulders, which was soon proven accurate when Filch appeared out of nowhere, keen to dock points for students out after curfew as always. She hurried to the common room with Harry after Hagrid intervened with Filch, but could not shake the unease that had settled over her long after the encounter in the corridors. Harry looked like he was convinced again of his ‘Snape Is Evil’ theory, but Hermione was concerned about what Dumbledore had asked of Snape.

* * *

Severus was still livid. He had found out what a Horcrux was in an ancient crumbling tome earlier in the day _—Spiritual Magicks_ had looked like a religious text at first, but if it was then it was an intense perversion of one _—_ and Dumbledore had refused to tell him what went on in Harry’s lessons yet again. Severus was the most skilled to assist Potter in the destruction of Voldemort’s Horcrux, and was the best placed to find out where it was, but Dumbledore yet again showed that he did not trust him, or, worse yet, preferred Potter. A Potter over himself, yet again. After all the years it still rankled.

And after what he had recently witnessed, he was very tired of feeling like he could do nothing to change things.

Dumbledore had promised Severus earlier while they talked in the woods that he would show his trust later in his office, and Severus was headed in that direction. It was later. He would have his answers.

Severus briefly stopped in front of the hunched gargoyle leading to Dumbledore’s office.

“Sour Fizzy Flobberworms,” he said, with a distasteful wrinkling of his nose.

The gargoyle let him pass, and soon he was seated in front of Dumbledore’s desk. He kept his gaze trained ahead, the strange gold and silver moving contraptions in the office no longer holding interest for him.

Fawkes studied him with his round bird eyes but did not make a sound. 

Severus was about to get up to look for Dumbledore when the Headmaster emerged from his study.

“Ah. Good evening, Severus. On-time, as always,” he said, walking over to a bookshelf.

“You said you would tell me things tonight,” Severus said stiffly.

“I realise you are not pleased that I am keeping information from you Severus, and for that, I truly apologise,” Dumbledore began, briefly making eye contact with Severus before gazing out the window. “There is some information that cannot be shared between you and Harry until the time is right.”

“What information?” Severus asked.

Dumbledore continued on as if he had not heard him. _“Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?”_

_“But what must he do?”_

_“That is between Harry and me. Now, listen closely, Severus. There will come a time—after my death—do not argue, do not interrupt! There will come a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake.”_

_“For Nagini?”_ Severus asked, too tired of Dumbledore’s cryptic ways to be astonished anymore. Dumbledore had a faraway look on his face, and Severus had the feeling Dumbledore was not all there in the room.

_“Precisely. If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but keeps it safe beside him, under magical protection, then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry.”_

_“Tell him what?”_ Severus asked, trying to ignore the urge that he had been nursing for the past few minutes—years really—to tell the old man to get to the point.

_“Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself on to the only living soul left in that collapsing building…”_ Severus’ mind ground to a halt. _“...while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to, and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die.”_

There was a dull sound of roaring in his ears. Dumbledore couldn’t possibly be saying what he was saying.

_“So the boy...the boy must die?”_ he asked calmly.

_“And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential.”_

Severus felt like laughing. It sounded like a punchline to a joke, but it wasn’t funny.

_“I thought...all these years...that we were protecting him for her. For Lily.”_ Dumbledore had said they were protecting Harry in honour of Lily’s sacrifice. Severus focused on his breathing, barely restraining the urge to punch Dumbledore in the face.

_“We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength...Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth: sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will, truly, mean the end of Voldemort.”_

It was amazing. This was particularly ruthless, even for Dumbledore.

_“You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?”_

_“Don’t be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you watched die?”_ Dumbledore said mildly, lifting a brow. Boiling rage rose through Severus’ body instantly _—_ yes, he had killed in the past, indirectly _—_ but that was before _—_ and to have Dumbledore throw his past in his face like that to equivocate his current actions was low.

_“Lately, only those whom I could not save,”_ Severus spat out, reminding Dumbledore of his many decisions which resulted in death. He pushed back his chair and stood to face Dumbledore. _“You have used me.”_

_“Meaning?”_

_“I have spied for you, and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter—”_

_“But this is touching, Severus,”_ Dumbledore interrupted. _“Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?”_

_“For him?”_ It was absurd. The entire conversation was absurd. _“Expecto Patronum!”_

From the tip of his wand emerged a silver doe, indistinct at the edges. It was amazing he could even conjure up a Patronus.

_“After all this time?”_ Dumbledore asked, eyes shining.

Severus hesitated. He knew what Dumbledore thought, but he was not a good man. Perhaps he had been good, once upon a time. Good men acted out of love; Severus Snape acted out of vengeance and atonement. Still. The driving motive came from the same origins.

_“Always,”_ he replied.

The two men lapsed into silence for a moment. 

“So there is no other way,” Severus stated.

Dumbledore shot him a look, eyes dry now. “You know best of all we cannot afford to be sentimental in a time of war...”

“Are we not protecting anyone anymore?” Severus asked, weary.

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Be glad you do not have these choices weighing upon your soul,” Dumbledore said heavily.

“No, I just have to deal with the consequences.”

“For that, I am sorry. But we are at war.”

Severus sneered, though Dumbledore took no notice of his expression. “Of course. We are at war,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for sticking around. I made an update at my [tumblr](https://viridiantly.tumblr.com/post/642504535383965696/advanced-floriography-posting-hiatus-over) but in short my posting hiatus is over, though I'll be down to posting every 3-4 weeks until I finish writing this fic. Hope you all enjoy this chapter! :)


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